Business Class Girl
by LaMomo
Summary: Edward is a young Brit actor on the rise. His problem? He's absolutely clueless, about everything. Bella is a kick-ass legal assistant at a glamourous London law firm. They hop on and off planes all the time. Will their paths ever cross?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – CHAPTER ONE**

_[__March] - Edward_

Another violent awakening, courtesy of a frantic call from my agent in the nick of time, which jars me awake from a dreamless, deep sleep. Angela is barking the usual orders over the phone.

"Edward! Get your British ass out of bed and on that minicab in ten. No excuses accepted."

The line clicks shut without any further ado. No goodbyes, no polite pauses waiting for my answer. Angela is calling long distance, and whatever the time in Los Angeles, she has better things to do rather than haul me out of bed in time for my flight. I catch the drift of her matter-of-fact, distant words and get ready to go.

Another rush to Heathrow, courtesy of a pick-up service that arrives at the appointed time on the dot.

Another round through check-in and security, going through the motions as usual. Being somewhat famous does not spare me the formalities of travelling while I'm still on the ground.

Another business class flight. This, though, is where things start to change, both in a good and bad way. My business class ticket grants me access to the VIP lounge at the terminal. I'm surrounded by other members of this not-so-exclusive club, mainly professional men who are travelling for business and do not take any heed of me. I can freely slouch in my seat until one of my newly acquired security guys nods silently at me. It's time, new security detail insists that I board planes first and disembark them last. That way, my bodyguards can drag me far away from fellow travellers and from any pappz waiting on the concourse.

Absentmindedly, I make my way though the gate and on to the plane. The flight attendant flashes me a blinding smile and assures me that she "will be right there, whatever I need." Gross, and hackneyed, like I haven't heard that one before…

I mumble a vaguely courteous reply and slouch again in my seat. I'm planning to spend the next ten hours to LAX as I always do, i.e., being as inconspicuous as possible. The plane is filling up slowly, and from my vantage point, I cannot resist indulging in one of my guilty pleasures, people-watching. I'm eagerly scanning the population of this flight. It's pretty much the same self-absorbed, blackberry-clutching crowd I spotted earlier in the VIP lounge, nothing worth my efforts.

At last, a whirlwind of long mahogany brown hair catches my eye. This luscious mane belongs to a petite but hyperactive girl a couple of seats away from me. My attention is instantly riveted.

Why? Not because of her looks, though the little I can see is stunning enough, in my book. Not because of her style, though she is sheathed in a sleek power pantsuit that hugs her curves perfectly.

Her voice has me breathless, while my eyes are unable to quit staring covertly at her. Her cheek's glued to her blackberry, as she's launching a cross-fire of information to whoever it is at the other end of the line, and though she is speaking quickly, her voice is patiently sweet, but not patronising, and she never falters. She raps answer after answer at the speed of lightning. I cannot help eavesdropping, I'm mesmerised by the sheer self-confidence and competence that this girl is exuding. I suddenly feel extremely insignificant.

"You'll find the updated file on your desk, Jazz. It's in the far right corner, next to the paper weight."

I barely remember what I'm wearing at the moment, and possibly my middle name (_Anthony?_) and this munchkin of a girl not only remembers the exact file she's being asked for, but also its exact location on this Jazz character's desk. I'm awed. But this is only the beginning. The phone call drags on and on, giving my stalking tendencies something to do until the plane takes off.

"Yes, I made the reservations yesterday and it's all in good order. Kate has a copy of your calendar and knows who to call while I'm away. You have nothing to worry about. Let me do this, Jazz."

This girl definitely knows her shit, maybe I can pick up some of her tricks if I keep listening.

_Keep telling yourself that, Cullen_.

"The latest version of the contract came by email last night. The target's counsels made pretty heavy revisions, I left a printout of the compare version for you on top of the file. What? Deal breakers? Hell, no, I don't think so, but I'll leave that for you to decide…"

_Compare version? Come again?_

Holy shit!

She's not only competent, she also is smart and sounds like she knows exactly what she's talking about. This Jazz character, though, why is he firing questions away at her at that speed? What does he want with her?

"Jazz, I'll have to cut this short, the flight attendants are glaring at me. Yup, Genius. Love you. Bye".

_Love you? Love you? Damn. Wait, why am I saying damn? I don't even know her!_

The flight attendant interrupts my musings to check on my seat belt and to ask, once again, whether there is "anything she can do for me". I wave her away, eager to return to my new favourite activity: stalking the brunette power munchkin a few seats away.

The plane is slowly heading on to the tarmac, and she's clutching her blackberry to her ear again, though more covertly, this time. She is whispering, but I angle myself to make the most of my eavesdropping skills, which do not fail me.

"Yes, Jazz." She sounds vaguely annoyed this time. "I met them last week. They seemed interested but I cannot tell you for sure. You should meet them. They probably have a couple of big ticket deals under their belt. We wouldn't want to miss those. How do I know? I know a fair amount of prominent investment bankers, Genius, that's how I know. Jazz, this is barely legal. Let me go before they force me out of the plane. Yes, I will. Love you, Jazz".

_Again with that "Love" thing? Seriously? Is that her boyfriend? Can't he leave her alone? Why do I care?_

The plane takes off, and power munchkin finally relaxes in her seat, throwing the offending device into a pocket of her briefcase.

_Briefcase? I thought only CEOs had those. Holy hell. _

The girl wearily rubs her eyes , and heaves a resigned sigh. My heart constricts of its own accord, torn between awe at her outstanding skills and some unexplainable killer instinct towards this Jazz bloke who takes up all of her time. She's tired, there's no beating about the bush. Still, she rummages through her briefcase and fishes out a copy of today's Financial Times.

_Financial Times? Colour me ignorant._

After a while, I doze off, prisoner of my own lack of sleep, and unwillingly relent from my stalkerish tendencies.

A few hours later, the plane is airborne at some unknown point above the Atlantic. I feel a pang of discomfort and realise that I do not know what the girl is up to. And that I haven't been watching her for…the last two hours?

_Addicted, much?_

Still, I don't need to fabricate justifications for myself as my eyes drift towards her seat, and find her sleeping, huddled in a plush business class blanket, clutching a book in her hand. Her mahogany hair surrounds her peaceful face like a silky halo, a few wayward tendrils partially hiding her alabaster skin from me. I frown, because I'm denied the full view of her face and of her eyes, when all I want to do is stare at her, my persistence tiptoeing on the fine line between a creepy stalker and a love-struck fool.

_Love-struck fool? Hello, Cullen! Newsflash, you don't even know her!_

She is not flashy, but like everything else about her, she exudes the kind of quiet beauty that stops your breath and ensnares your heart. I think, fleetingly, that I'm reaching new heights of pathetic obsession with every passing second.

Then, just as the girl begins to stir from sleep, the flight attendant is suddenly at her side, holding the in-flight satellite phone in her hand. Even I know that this is not a good sign. For all the times Angela wanted to kick my ass from the other end of the world, she never resorted to such means. The flight attendant cautiously nudges the girl to attract her attention. The girl, Business Class Girl to me, irrevocably, stares, still groggy from sleep, at the flight attendant as the dumb blonde bimbo stage-whispers, loud enough for me to hear without any super-stalker powers:

"Miss, an urgent call from White, Devlin & Hale in London for you?"

Business Class Girl is exasperated, but nods patiently as she takes the call, of course.

"Jasper, what can I do for you, from this godforsaken location some 48,000 feet above the Atlantic? I trust this is a world-class emergency, you are using in-flight satellite devices."

Jasper? Seriously, the Jazz bloke's Christian name is Jasper? How old is he, 93? And what does he want again with my Business Class Girl?

_Wait: MY Business Class Girl? Since when, Cullen?_ _Hush, Cullen, you need to listen now_.

"Jasper, please, you need to stop this. I can't do anything constructive here, now. You want to know who the investment banker on the deal was? Easy, his name is Kevin Maxwell. He used to work for UBS Warburg, now I wouldn't know. But Rosalie might know. Oh wait! Now I remember, he started his own private equity boutique. Office? Somewhere in Canary Wharf, I guess. Yes, Rosalie again. Ring her, not me. She is probably having lunch at St Martin's right now, not flying above the Atlantic. No, Jazz. I honestly don't know if I really like you that much right now. Yes, Jazz. When I land, not before. No, Jazz. Still don't know. OK, probably not. I'll talk to you…" She checks her watch. "…in about 5 hours. And I'll see you in a fortnight, praised be the Lord. Love you, Jazz. Behave."

At the end of this monumental conversation, my jaw is still slack from astonishment and my brain is sorely attempting to process this shit-ton of new information about my Business Class Girl. I have to hand it to him, this Jazz man is indirectly helping me. If he did not bother her so much, I wouldn't know shit about her. Thanks, Jazz, but stop harassing my girl. Leave her be, you'll have her back in a fortnight, I'll never see her again.

_Wait…she said fortnight__? She must be English!_ _A lass after my own heart…_

She works in London. Better still, she works in the City, and she gets airborne phone calls from White, Devlin & Hale. Even a clueless actor on the rise like me has heard the name before. Why, it's none other than one of the leading, if not the leading, law firms in London… It helps that my dad has friends in high places and, as it happens, knows one Russell Devlin. Yes, the name partner. This might actually get me somewhere.

_Note to self: ring Dad when you get off the goddamn plane. Butter him up and ask how Uncle Russell is doing._

Once again, possible first-hand information aside, I am in awe of Business Class Girl, even in a residual bout of sleep, and looking royally pissed off with "Jasper", she manages to deliver. No stuttering, no blundering, no faltering. I can only conclude that, to achieve this, she must have a perfect memory, get all the facts straight and have a direct connection from her brain to her mouth. She probably doesn't even need a brain filter, a girl like this does not put her foot in her mouth, ever. Again, I feel extremely underperforming and insignificant. Compared to her, I am a clueless idiot.

With a blinding smile, she hands the satellite phone back to blonde bimbo, and with a resigned huff retrieves the book she was reading. Before her face disappears behind the book, I manage to get a good look at her. If I was mesmerised by her voice earlier on, now I am floored by her eyes: deep, wide chocolate eyes, framed by a set of lashes that seem to go on for miles and feel like black silk, even from a distance. I want to get lost in those eyes. My own eyes, however, keep on the right track for another second, enough to catch a glimpse of the book she is reading.

_French literature? In French? Holy hell. _

I know that book, I know that one very well because I have a dog-eared copy of that same book in my own backpack (no briefcases for me). I have it because it's my next project, the next film I will be shooting once I am back in L.A. She is reading my story, well, not my story, but…the story I will be interpreting. And she is reading it in French.

_Mon Dieu._

I wonder what it would be like to discuss my take on the book with her, but my wish is unfulfilled, because time flies… and sooner rather than later, the captain proudly announces that we will be landing at LAX in less than an hour, and ahead of schedule.

_Damn – why isn't the plane late when I need it? _

I'll have to leave Business Class Girl behind. I'll never see her again. I might as well cherish these last moments. Unseen, I keep staring at her, but she never looks my way. She stops the flight attendant once, only to ask for a cup of tea:

"Earl Grey, please. No milk, no lemon, no sugar. Would you not happen to have a mug? That would be great."

Business Class Girl is picky about her tea. _A lass after my own heart…_

When the plane lands at LAX, the crowd of business class passengers flashes out of the aircraft in a blur. I must linger on, security detail wants me to leave the plane last, so that no-one sees me. Business Class Girl lingers as well. I covertly do a fist pump, this calls for a celebration. She beats me to the punch, though, and leaves the aircraft shortly before I do.

Once I am filing through the hallways that lead to baggage claim, I scan the crowd to locate her. She skips the doors that lead to immigration, she has a US passport? Bummer, I thought she was English…

I see no trace of her at baggage claim but, much to my dismay, I spot a small crowd of press people and pappz on the concourse. Someone must have prompted them of my arrival. My bodyguards are instantly at my side as the doors to the exits click open. Among the swarm of flashes and the incessant click of the cameras, I spot a petite brunette with a designer suit a few yards ahead of me. Relief washes over me, briefly.

A giant of a bloke, built like a linebacker, with dimples on his cheeks and short-cropped curly hair, shouts over the crowd:

"BeeBee! Over here!"

Business Class Girl literally runs to him, and he scoops her up in his arms and twirls her around in a vice-tight hug.

"Em! It's so good to see you!"

The linebacker does not release her as he answers: "BeeBee, I can't believe you're back here with me!"

_Get your filthy paws off my girl, linebacker!_

She smiles, and laughs. Her laugh is like the music of silver chimes carried on the wind. Floored, yet again. I'm hopeless. I might actually need help. Does Angela know a good shrink? Of course, who doesn't know a shrink in L.A.?

Business Class Girl's laugh dies away quickly, though. Linebacker "Em" puts her back on her own two feet as she digs her blackberry out of her bag. She is on the line in a nanosecond, and she looks pissed again.

"Jazz, what the hell? Did you set an alarm or something? And to think we landed ahead of schedule, despite the disturbances…Yes, you calling satellite can be defined as disturbance in my book. Tell you what, I'll capitalise that. Disturbance. You are a Disturbance."

Before she can go on, "Em" grabs the offending device from her hand.

"Jasper, it's me. Emmett – that's who! I know you are my prospective brother in law but BeeBee is on holiday and you should leave her the fuck alone!"

_One for the team, Emmett. _

My respect for Linebacker guy soars all of a sudden. Business Class Girl is relieved. On the downside, my befuddled brain registers only one ominous word: "_brother in law_".

_Damn. Shit. Fuck. And here I thought we could be friends, Linebacker. Now I know for sure we never will. _

Linebacker notices the crowd of pappz and journalists around me while my bodyguards and I file past them on the concourse. From behind my shades, I turn imperceptibly and take one last good look at Business Class Girl, just in time to overhear Linebacker ask her.

"What's with all these gossip rag whores here today?"

Business Class Girl answers dismissively, winding an arm around this Emmett guy's waist.

"Just some actor, on my plane…"

Reality sets in, with a bitter pang. I am just "some actor". She doesn't know me, and very likely she never will. I can't help feeling abandoned, belittled and pissed, because I'll have to hide out in my flat, whoops, sorry, apartment, while she'll be hanging out with this beast of a guy. Who the hell is he, anyway? Boyfriend? Friend?

The very last sentence I eavesdrop on gives me an answer I wish I never got. Emmett squeezes her shoulders and says.

"BeeBee, what do you feel like doing?"

She bounces in her tracks and answers: "I'm itching for a rough ride…"

_Please, tell me she didn't mean it that way. Please, God, I will be good from now on. Just tell me…_

Emmett quips back with a boisterous laugh.

"The Tiger is waiting for you to ride him, hot stuff."

_Right. She did mean it that way. I'm officially dead. Here lies Edward Cullen._

_Business Class Girl's POV_

Emmett stares at me as I literally throw myself on the leather seat of his shiny red Dodge Viper. I let out another exasperated sigh. It seems to me I've been sighing non-stop since I took the plane in London, what with Jasper's incessant phone calls and all the rest. I wait patiently. Emmett is not going to be silent forever.

Let the show begin in three, two, one…

"BeeBee, now that you're safely hidden by the tinted windows of my fuck-hot car, will you tell me what the hell is the matter?"

I frown. White lie, or violent truth? _Tertium datur_… sometimes, and I flash a devious smile as I fondly remember the twisted version of my professor's Latin adage from my not-so-bygone Oxford days. Sometimes there is a third way, you just have to be creative about it, and know your onions well.

"Do I need a reason to visit my older brother?"

Emmett smiles widely at me, his dimples in full view.

"Of course you don't, hot stuff. But you've been sighing and shaking non-stop since you landed in my arms, and I want to know why."

"Emmie.."

"Don't you Emmie me, hot stuff. Shit is going down with you and I want to know. Now. Don't make me call Rose to know, it's past midnight in London and I don't want her to rip me a new one. Do me a solid and tell me. Now."

Right, I was wrong. _Tertium non datur,_ why did Professor Collins have to be always right? There is no third way. And Emmett doesn't take kindly to white lies. Violent truth it is. My lip starts to quiver. I'm through with being strong. I can be a weak, overwhelmed kid when big brother Emmie is with me.

"Oh, Emmett…I can't take any more. I really can't."

Now it's Emmett's turn to sigh.

"Bella… Come here, little sis. Whatever it is, we can work this out." He says reassuringly as he wraps me once again in his bear hug.

And I believe him. He is going to make this alright.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – CHAPTER TWO  
**

_[JUNE] – Edward_

Three months have gone by and, quite unsurprisingly, I find myself once again in a glossy minicab headed to Heathrow. I have spent these last months in Los Angeles, walled up in a soundstage and clad in stifling period clothes, for the whole duration of the shoot of my latest film.

Filming is now done, the movie is in post-production and Angela's been gracious enough to grant me ten days away from the Hollywood mayhem. As usual, she is all but disinterested. My three-day stint in London was filled with press junkets and interviews, and though my primary wish in coming back to England was to actually be home and see my parents, I could only scrape a hasty dinner. Needless to say, my mom was not pleased. My dad took it in stride, but was honest enough to look puzzled when I asked about Uncle Russell, Russell Devlin, Esq., QC, to the general public.

I am at the airport in a blur, sipping from a paper cup full of crappy coffee. I'm on autopilot as I go through the motions, and just as I leave security behind me, my phone chirps in my pocket.

"Edward! Are you on the plane yet?"

That's my sister for you, Alice Cullen, fashion designer extraordinaire. If I could bottle little Short Stuff's energy, the world would have an endless, environmentally-friendly renewable source of power. In the meantime, I let her harass me through the phone.

"Alice, sister dear, obviously not. I am on my way to the VIP Lounge."

"Oh, right. Well, I'll let you go. I'll see you in a few."

"Sure thing, Short Stuff, sure thing. Love you."

"Love you, too, big famous brother."

She has a right to be excited, well, being Alice, over-excited would be a more appropriate description. Angela's generosity with my crammed-up schedule has allowed me a four-day stop over in Milan, Italy, where my dearest (and only) sister works as a junior designer for Giorgio (Armani). Some coaxing on her part (and some bullying on Angela's) has worked its magic, and I will not only visit my sister in her adopted hometown for the first time in two years, but also grace the photo shoot for Giorgio (Armani)'s upcoming spring-summer collection, which features some of my little sister's creations.

_Cullen, you are not on holiday. You'll be harassed by your sister around the clock and be looked at like you're man meat for 36 hours straight. Thanks, Angela._

These are my bleak thoughts as I board the plane. As usual, I am alone in my business class seat as I watch the other passengers slowly fill up this section of the plane. I notice that some of them are throwing knowing glances at me. Easy, my face has been plastered on every glossy magazine cover on the planet for the last three months, courtesy of Angela's ninja-like publicist skills. This huge press uproar is pre-emptive promotion for my latest movie, the newly-completed French period thing I was studying only three months ago, on a very similar plane, on a very similar flight.

I sigh, half-bored, half-resigned, for there is no way in hell that this short flight to Milan is going to hold a candle to that flight back to L.A. last March. I have been fantasizing about buzzing blackberries and pinstriped pantsuits ever since. I am hopeless.

Well aware that I will need something to occupy my time for the next 120 minutes, I locate the script for my next project and begin scanning the first pages. I need to learn my lines, this shoot will begin right after my short stay with Alice and I need to be prepared for the read-through.

For once, I forgo my secret pleasure of people-watching on the plane, and I realise with a guilty pang that this is not because I suddenly have something better to do. It is because I want to be spared the disappointment of not finding anyone worth watching, when I know perfectly well that only one person would be worth watching.

With blind stubbornness, I bury my nose in my script. The plane is not yet moving, but damn close to being shut and herded on to the tarmac. A sort of commotion disrupts my self-imposed bubble of silence. The last passenger has finally made it to the flight, there is always someone, I notice with evil satisfaction, who manages to run later than I do. This one plops down on the seat, in the same row as mine, and just a seat and a narrow aisle away from mine, in a flurry of colour and scent. Right, we have a she-passenger, within viewing distance of yours truly.

The she-passenger is talking animatedly to someone on the phone, though, on second thoughts, '_animatedly_' is not an apt description. She is vehemently assertive, or in less politically correct terminology, she is pissed as hell.

"No, Jake. I won't change my plans. You thought? You thought wrongly. I am going to see my mother. End of discussion. And there is nothing you can do about this."

The phone call drones on. I am hooked, and now I cannot help eavesdropping. She is seething with rage, her ice-cold words laced with finality.

"No, Jake! Goodbye! What? Oh, bloody hell, I have a call from Jasper waiting! And I am on the plane! No, I won't talk to you later, if I can help it. Goodbye".

Before my brain registers these words, I am suddenly frozen in place. The script falls to the floor with a thud. My jaw goes slack. I know this voice. I blink once. Of its own accord, my hand reaches the floor to retrieve my script. I throw a covert glance at her.

_Cullen, it's not the time to have a panic attack. It's time to celebrate. _

The tardy she-passenger is none other than my Business Class Girl.

Now that this flight has suddenly become the second best flight of my life, because the best ever, hands down, was three months ago, I find it perfectly normal to switch on the stalker mode. The script becomes a prop, the only shield that masks me as I stare at her unabashedly.

She looks stunning, in a 50s-looking summer dress that flows over her curves in a whirlwind of flowers and colours. Her hair is longer and falls on her shoulders in billowing curls. She looks tired, though, and tense. She huffs, and quickly touches a speed-dial button on her blackberry. I listen in, while my eyes can't bear to be torn away from her figure. I am now captivated by her fingers as she twirls a lock of her hair around them. I want to run my fingers through those silky locks. The flight attendant glares at her, but she looks haughtily the other way.

"Hi, Jasper. I made it, yes, in the nick of time. No, don't worry. Kate has your schedule and she has all the files. Garrett will attend the meeting in my place. Closing dinner is tomorrow. Sorry for bombarding you – but I must really cut this short. We're on the tarmac. Yes, he did call me. Yes, he sort of hinted that he would do that. No, I don't want to. I just want to leave it all behind. Yes, Jazz. I know you do. Thank you. Love you, Jazz. Bye."

She slumps in her seat and leans back on the headrest. She lets out a deep sigh as she closes her tired eyes, before rubbing them with hands. I cannot believe that she is here. I cannot believe that I get two more hours with her. Slowly, my dazzled idiotic brain starts to sift through the relevant information scattered in these two short phone calls. I need to do this, I need to size up the competition.

_Competition? Cullen, hello? You still don't even know her…_

This Jasper man is still in the picture. My initial killer instincts towards him have partially been subdued by the insider information I garnered from my dad in London. I had to suffer through a pint with Uncle Russell, but it was definitely worth it. The elderly Queen's Counsel has been most profligate in handing me information about his newest partner, the golden boy who has secured Uncle Russell's early retirement from the law firm. The golden boy is so golden that he has been made partner, name partner, mind you, as in White, Devlin & _Hale._ Jasper Hale, that is the bloke's full name, is an up and coming corporate lawyer, with an Oxford BSc Hons degree and an LLM from Princeton under his belt (not that I know what any of those acronyms mean), and he leads the most profitable department at White, Devlin & Hale.

Russell has rather glowing words for his assistant, as well. Since I have to remain inconspicuous, I cannot ask Uncle Russell for any details. My interest and my shameless hidden agenda must remain hidden. Nonetheless, this leads me to believe that Jasper Hale is actually Business Class Girl's boss, and she is the outstanding assistant who has prompted Uncle Russell's unsolicited praise.

I am still partially annoyed, though, because this Jasper guy drains the life out of my Business Class Girl with his incessant requests and phone calls. Can't he see how hard she works? Doesn't he know that he is one lucky son of a bitch, to have such a star working for him?

I am partially annoyed also because their relationship is not a typical boss-assistant interaction. She is professional, but affectionate. She is always on top of things, but she draws a firm line when he exaggerates. She is knowledgeable, but their conversations are not just professional. Especially today: why do I get the feeling that she was just now sharing personal details with him? Why do I get the feeling that he was worried about something and that, however, she was trying to hold things back?]

Then I remember that she has had another phone call in the last twenty minutes. I remember her irate tone as she spat curt words at this Jake bloke over her blackberry and I fervently wish that I never find myself on the receiving end of such a tirade. No human amount of grovelling could erase that tone nor placate such wrath. And yet, through it all, she sounded reluctant and defeated to me. She was holding her ground, but at what cost? My jaw clenches with blind rage. What has this guy done to her? What is this guy to her? He cannot be another boss, she cannot possibly have two masters. This Jake guy must be the boyfriend.

_This is the competition, Cullen. Game on._

The plane is now airborne, my musings have gotten me through take off and then some, since all I can see from my lonely window seat is the blue expanse of the Channel below the aircraft. From behind my script, I am still staring at her as she calls the flight attendant and politely asks for refreshment.

"I will have Earl Grey, please. No milk, no sugar, no lemon. In a mug? Just perfect, thank you."

She is still as picky as ever with her tea. I silently wave away the flight attendant, I do not need refreshment, I just need to keep staring at my girl. Business Class Girl is a busy girl. She does not read this time, she works. Her laptop open on the tray in front of her, she types furiously without even looking at the keyboard. Her long hair cascades around her, masking her face from view. About halfway through the flight, she puts her laptop away and fishes a bulky, dog-eared book from her briefcase.

_Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire? Fuck me pink._

What is it with this girl and her reading choices? I am only a heartbeat away from lowering my script and telling her, with shameless cheek: "Do you know that I was Cedric Diggory?"

My brain filter is not totally gone, though, and I relent before I make a complete fool of myself in front of the whole business class.

All too soon, we are landing in Milan. She does not linger this time, she practically flees the aircraft and, since I must leave the plane after everyone else, I have no hope whatsoever of catching a glimpse of her either at baggage claim or passport control. I wait for my security guys to fetch me at baggage claim and guide me through passport control and, finally, they herd me out to the exit.

I am somewhat pleased to find that there is no throng of squealing fan girls waiting for me. For once, I am granted a peaceful arrival. That is, until a bite-size energizer bunny in designer clothes and Jackie O sunglasses collides with my chest.

Did I just say peaceful? Scratch that, Alice has come to pick me up at the airport…

"Edward! I am sooooooooooo happy to see youuuuuuuuuuuuu!"

I can't help smiling. I am sooooooooooo happy to see my little sister as well, with as many o's as she likes.

"Short Stuff! I really missed you." She hugs me, and I hug her back, and twirl her around the concourse. For the first time in about six months, I feel like a normal guy again. I can hug my sister and there is no-one to snap a picture of me. I will not end up on the homepage of TMZ tomorrow, with flying rumours about my latest fling.

_My baby sister? Seriously?_

For the first time in three months, I do not feel dejected and lonely, and in this fleeting instant, as I am still twirling Alice around, and she is protesting because I get wrinkles all over her outfit, I am too caught up in my own bubble of joy to notice a cloud of mahogany hair and a flowery dress file out of the airport.

_Business Class Girl's POV_

I specifically asked my mom not to come and get me at the airport. I needed some time alone before I got sucked in by her enthusiasm. She tried to make me cave in, blurting out something about a colleague of hers who had to come to the airport anyway to pick someone else up.

My mom works as a photographer for a fashion company that has several hundred employees. Seriously, what are the chances that someone from the same company is picking up someone on the same day, and on the same flight as me?

In the end, I won my argument. I just needed to mention that I had to swing by the Milan office to check my emails and talk to Jasper. She's known Jasper for a coon's age, and the mere mention of his name mellows her out immediately and we agree to meet up for drinks near her office.

It is a long drive from the airport to downtown Milan, and I occupy my time with a long list of phone calls.

Rosalie calls me first. I smile as I pick up my blackberry.

"Well, BeeBee, how's Milan?"

"Rosebud, I should say as hot as ever, and I am not even in town yet."

"Good. Maybe the sun will put some colour on your cheeks. Did Mr Asshole Extraordinaire rear his ugly head again?"

Rosalie does not take kindly to Jacob. Normally, I would tell her to take a hike. Today, though, and lately in general, I do not take kindly to my boyfriend either, so I let her be.

"Yes, he tried to make me change my plans. Again. He wanted me to go to New York to see him instead. Lucky for me, I was already boarding the plane."

Rosalie scoffs. She knows it took me a herculean effort not to give in to Jacob's pleas, and that I stood my ground only because my mom was involved. And some coaxing from Jasper.

"BeeBee, honestly, how delusional can you get about that guy?"

"Rosebud, listen. I know everything you want to say. And I agree with most of it. But I need time to extricate myself from this. And I've got enough on my plate. And…"

"And you want me not to stick my sorry nose where it does not belong. I get it."

Rosalie is as tough as nails, but I have known her forever, and she knows me, in turn, like the back of her hand. She knows I need time to deal with the epic fuck-up that Jake has turned out to be. She knows I have to do that on my own terms. And she definitely knows that I can deal with one thunderstorm at a time, case in point, my mom first, and then, when I am be back in London, Jacob.

It is late afternoon when I arrive downtown. I swing by the office, check my emails (a metric ton of them, all from Jasper) and then make my way to meet my mom.

She sees me from afar, right in front of the corporate headquarters of Giorgio Armani (yes, that is the fashion company she works for) and literally runs to meet me.

She hugs me tight to her chest and I scan her boho-chic attire with an imperceptibly raised eyebrow. Then again, she is an artist, she works in fashion, she is allowed to be extravagant with her clothing.

"Isabella, baby, let me look at you…"

Bless my mother and her childlike ways. She looks at me, frowns a little, and then I have no secrets to hide. She knows it all.

"Sweetie, what's wrong with you? Tell your mom."

And just like that, a few words are enough to unleash the waterworks.

"Oh, Mom…It's Jake…"

"What about Jake? You were head over heels in love with that boy, what's wrong?"

"He is making a mess of things. He says he can't live without me…"

"That's supposed to be a good thing…" She tries to be supportive, to see the sunny side of things. But this time it doesn't work.

"It should, but there is depending…and there is depending… And Jake has no grip on reality, he has lost all sense of balance since he moved to New York. He feels lost there, and wants me to move. I can't drop everything just because the spoiled little brat feels lonely."

We are now sipping margaritas in the garden of Bulgari Hotel, one of the classic hideouts in town for the rich and famous. My mom is definitely in her element. Every now and then someone stops by our table to meet and greet. She nods cheerfully, exchanges a few pleasantries and then comes back to me, her attention fully riveted by my musings.

"Doesn't Jasper's law firm have an office in New York? You could transfer over there, be with Jake and keep your job."

It all sounds so simple, coming from Renee's mouth. If only…

"Mom, I would keep an employer, not my job. Jasper is in London, and my job is in London. I do not want to move to New York City. I would have to start from scratch. And…"

My mom nods in understanding.

"The crux of the matter is that you don't want to be with Jake. Tell me the truth."

She gets it.

"No, Mom. I don't think I want to. Not anymore."

She hugs me.

"And now?" What are you going to do?"

Ding! A sudden flash of inspiration, a metaphorical light bulb flashes in my brain.

"You know, Mom? Sometimes, _tertium datur…_"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Thank you to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – CHAPTER THREE**

_[September] – Edward_

London in the rain, what a classical scene. What a nightmare to get to Heathrow in a minicab, when traffic is horridly slowed down by the downpour. Once in a blue moon though, I am not my usual clueless self, and I am not late. I get to Heathrow with plenty of time to spare. For once, my security guys quirk an eyebrow as they nod their silent salute.

Not that I can claim any sort of personal credit for my timeliness. I did not catch a wink of sleep last night. When I gave up trying, I just figured out I could get ready earlier, and called the minicab to pick me up in advance.

Well, I called Angela, who yelled at me because she was in a meeting, who called Jessica (her receptionist), who called the minicab company to reschedule. The chain of command may seem tortuous, but it is the only way I know. Angela is the go-to girl, without my agent I would be lost. I am lost, most of the time. Lost and clueless.

I have spent another eventful week in London. Of course, I was involved in all sorts of promotional and press events during the day, but this time I put my foot down. No posh hotels, no dinners, no after parties. I wanted to stay at home with my parents, have dinner with them every night and sleep in my old room.

I needed to be normal again, even if only for a week. When I am back in L.A. next week, I know I will be catapulted into mayhem again. The teen-movie franchise I signed on to last year has been my breakthrough, but since the hype began, I have had no peace whatsoever. This brought on a landslide of other opportunities, but along came the security guys, the crazy schedule, the media circus and…no peace.

I slump in my seat in the VIP Lounge, it will be a while before my flight to N.Y. is called to board. I am not used, not anymore, to having spare time on my hands. It feels foreign.

While I try to think of something to do, I scan the room out of habit. People-watching will definitely be my guilty pleasure forever. The VIP crowd always looks the same to me. Businessmen in pinstriped suits, briefcases at the ready, Financial Times clasped tight in their hands, the works.

One slight, petite figure stands out, though. She looks vulnerable and fierce at the same time. She is calm, collected and poised, with her head held high and her mahogany hair twisted in a serious bun at the nape of her neck. I do not need to look further to occupy my time.

_Cullen, can you believe your good fortune? It's her._

_Again._

My Business Class Girl is here again. But wait, before you get all excited…

_And I mean that literally, Cullen!_

Before you get all excited…she may be here to board another flight. So make the most of it, you might only catch this glimpse and then none, forevermore.

_Damn, how pathetic can you be, Cullen?_

Meanwhile, Business Class Girl has chosen a seat at the other end of the room, but still in a convenient position for me to continue gawking at her. Good thinking, because her seat is next to the restrooms and, as it happens, nature is calling. I answer promptly. It would be unhealthy to wait.

_You mean,__ it would be unhealthy not to stalk her while you can, Cullen…_

As I walk to the men's room, I happen to overhear a scrap of conversation.

"Hi Rosebud, it's me. Yes, I'm checked in and ready. I'm trying not to work. No, Jasper hasn't called. Yet."

Someone speaks at the other end of the line. She is silent as I enter the restroom. A few minutes later, I extricate myself from the cubicle and she is still on the phone.

"No, Rosalie. I'm not going to hide. I'm going to do something worthwhile, but before I do that, I need closure. Otherwise Jacob will never understand. I need to do this in person. And Jake is not the only person I am meeting in New York."

Silence. She frowns. My dazzled brain replays this random sentence again, to try and grasp its full import. _"I need closure. I need to do this in person". _Sounds like she is breaking up with the Jacob guy. Way to go, Business Class Girl.

_Wait,__ who is she going to meet in New York? Any chance we might run in the same circles?_

My flight is called for immediate boarding and I scamper back to my seat, gather my backpack and carry-on items and follow my security guys. Special stardom treatment begins here. I do not manage to overhear the rest of the conversation and I cannot take one last look at her.

All I can think of, as I am ushered through the secret doors that are closed to mortals but open to A-listers who need to travel far away from the public eye, is the look in her eyes, the lines of her face, the mass of mahogany silk on her shoulders.

Business Class Girl, will this closure give you what you want? Will it make you happy? I hope it makes you happy.

_Cut the emo crap, Cullen! _You_ want to make her happy!_

I am now safely boarded on the plane. My security guys have been herded down to the coach section and I try to make myself inconspicuous. No mean feat – courtesy of Angela and her cut-throat skills, my face graces the cover of GQ this month, US Edition. I had to don a monkey suit or two, got too much gel in my hair, looked mean and brooding like Jimmy Dean, and there goes anonymity. Plus, how well can you hide a mop of unruly, bronze-coloured locks? It does stand out in a crowd.

On top of that, add the studied obsequiousness of the flight attendants, and their unstoppable litany of '_Mr Cullen this, Mr Cullen that_', and I am definitely through with hoping I could get away with it. Everyone in a ten-foot radius knows who I am and where I am sitting.

I plan to catch up on sleep, anyway, and the seat beside mine is usually empty, I keep wondering whether it's a coincidence or not. Surely Angela does not book two seats for me to make sure no-one sits beside me?

This time around, though, I feel a gust of air moving in close proximity. It's a scented gust of air. I breathe it all in, because it feels oddly familiar. A shiver that has nothing to do with the pressurised air of the plane runs through my spine, down to my toes. I venture one peek at the source of this tantalising scent.

_Someone is watching over me. I may be a believer yet._

Because the source of this heavenly fragrance, flowery but not too sweet, fresh, but not too sour, in a word, a spellbinding scent of summer, sun and morning air, is none other than my favourite obsession. Business Class Girl is sitting right beside me. No aisles, no empty seats. She is right beside me. For an eight-hour flight.

What will I do, with the object of my obsession and the target of my stalkerish compulsions here beside me, at close range, within the reach of my hands?

I have not felt this nervous since the auditions and screen tests that ended up giving me the role of my life. The one that made it happen. I have not felt this nervous since the first time I kissed a girl, back in school, when I was a gangly and awkward teenager with unruly, totally unfashionable hair. I draw a deep breath that fills up my shoulders and muster up some semblance of courage. I will need it, for the next eight hours.

Sleeping never seemed so attractive, but somehow I don't think I could manage to sleep now, even with a deadly cocktail of sleeping draughts. Every nerve in my body, every cell in my brain, even the ones that are irrevocably hard-wired to my traitorous dick, is standing at attention.

_Roll call, guys. This is gonna be hard work._

And through what is becoming the ordeal of the century to yours truly, what does Business Class Girl do? She ignores me. Blatantly and flatly. The seat beside her could be empty, for all she cares. The plane rolls on the tarmac as the flight assistants go over the pre-flight routine, security arrangements, captain's announcements, how long the flight will be, what movies we will have, duty free shopping and whatnot. We are airborne. And she still ignores me.

With a pang of annoyance, I register that I am not used to being ignored. No -one ignores me, even and most of all when I want to be ignored. The one time I fervently want to be noticed, the one time I would crawl on my knees for miles for a look of recognition and a shy request for an autograph, I am met with a wall of indifference. She completely blacks me out. I do not exist in her world. She is too wrapped up in her own bubble to notice me.

I am slightly pissed off, because I definitely want her to notice me, but whatever rational capacity is left in my brain finally sends a memo to my baser instincts, and I realise that maybe not everything is lost. If she keeps ignoring me throughout the flight, I can keep stalking her as I always do, without creeping her out, and notwithstanding our forced close proximity.

I try to make myself less conspicuous by retreating to the very corner of my large seat, right against the window. I cannot keep my knit beanie on my head indoors, because it would be impolite, so I must reveal my very telltale hair against my will, but I can try to disappear in a corner. I am so nervous that probably some lost pre-teen ability from an earlier life will resurface and help me out with that.

Meanwhile, she is getting ready for her flight and, after hauling her large briefcase up in the overhead locker, I'm a jerk, because I could have helped her, but since I don't exist I can't help anyone, she gracefully settles back in her seat and places a heap of papers and a book on her tray.

She is not wearing work gear today. No designer pantsuits, no Jackie-O flowery dresses. She is donning a well-worn pair of stone-washed jeans, with a strategically-placed rip on one knee, and a pair of golden ballet flats. This breathtaking outfit is completed by a cream cashmere top that hugs her curves gracefully and leaves little to the imagination. Now I have to stare at this masterpiece for eight hours.

_Keep your eyes away from the rip on her knee, Cullen._

She fishes out an iPod and a black case from her purse, before devoting her full attention to the wad of papers in front of her. The case is actually a glasses case, which holds a pair of black-rimmed, professional looking spectacles.

_Damn, she looks hot in those librarian specs, Cullen._

She fiddles with her iPod for a few seconds, her ear buds already in place, until she successfully locates the playlist she wants. My eye wanders to the screen of the iPod of its own accord. The playlist is called 'Angry Songs' and it appears to be replete of all sorts of grunge and punk anthems, with more than a smattering of Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam thrown into the mix. Business Class Girl has unexpectedly good musical tastes, for someone who always appears so uptight and classy.

She scrolls down the playlist to locate a specific song. My eye does not fail me, once again.

_Stone Temple Pilots, Still Remains? Fuck me sideways. 'Stabbing thorns and you become me…_'

She is innocently torturing me to a slow death by unresolved sexual tension. One of the greatest bed-songs ever written, and I am condemned to contemplate the object of my obsession while she listens to that very song, less than a foot away from me, while I don't even know her name. I've never talked to her, I may never see her again and she is ignoring me like the plague.

_Not fair, Business Class Girl. Not fair at all._

I imperceptibly shake my head to clear my terribly lewd thoughts, and I fail miserably. She is impervious to each and every one of my movements. The music blaring in her ears further isolates her from me. I do not exist in her world.

She is fully engrossed by the papers in front of her. A fountain pen and a pencil in her hand, she carefully reads through every line, and occasionally jots down some notes on the margins. Sometimes she makes heavier corrections, crossing out entire lines and writing in her own text. Her additions are written in a neat and clear hand, every note and symbol scribbled down in what seems like a well-oiled correction method, with symbols and numbers to locate additions and moved paragraphs.

_She could give a few screenwriters a run for their money, Cullen._

She does not lift her head from her work for hours, and I drift off to sleep somewhere above the Atlantic, until a voice stirs me from my dreamless, uncomfortable sleep.

"BeeBee, is that you? How long! How have you been?"

Of course, with my luck, she had to meet someone she knew on this very flight. I open one crack of my left eye, to size up the competition, as envious as ever. Business Class Girl leaves her work behind and stands up to greet this stranger.

"Kevin Maxwell, I could say the same to you. Fancy finding you on this flight, how have you been?"

_Yeah, Kevin. Fancy finding you on this flight. Now get the hell away from my girl._

AssKevin hugs her and she hugs him back. AssKevin kisses her on the cheek. AssKevin's eye and his filthy hand linger on Business Class Girl's forearm for a second too long.

_AssKevin, say goodbye to your filthy hand._

They talk for a few minutes, until the flight attendant interrupts their friendly conversation because she needs to roll the refreshments trolley down the aisle. I do a little, covert happy dance. I might actually decide to be nice to this particular flight attendant until we land at JFK.

AssKevin returns to his seat, business class as well, unfortunately, with an eager proposal to meet up for lunch sometime while they are both in N.Y. Business Class Girl tries to answer politely, but she still sounds non-committal to me. Why do I get the feeling that she is letting him down easy? Why am I so pleased?

_Because you want to take her out for lunch, dinner, and then breakfast, Cullen. Be honest._

Business Class Girl is back in her seat, and is back to ignoring me steadfastly. We still have two hours before we land. I try to get some shut eye, I am still watching her, though, through a crack in my eye. The same crack that glared at AssKevin so furiously that, if I had some super power, he might have spontaneously combusted.

She has switched to another pastime, the wad of papers has been put back into her briefcase and replaced by a black notebook. I know the shape and feel of this kind of notebook, because I myself go through tons of them.

She is writing in a Moleskine notebook. With a fountain pen. She is filling line after line with neatly penned sentences. I cannot bring myself to read them, there is a precise code of honour for us stalkers, and reading over her shoulder would definitely break some golden rule of conduct. Something stops me, and I have to look away. I pretend to sleep, but before I do, I take one good look at her while she is writing.

She looks so spontaneous, so peaceful and at ease while she is writing, that my heart swells with pride and joy. It does not matter that I do not know her, it does not matter that I do not know what she is writing, but of all the times I've seen her, spied on her, stalked her, hung on her every word, looking for every clue and every hidden meaning that could bring me closer to her and to her secrets, I have never felt so close to violating her sphere as I am now.

I have to look away, until a strange sound calls my attention back to her. She stifles a sob and brings her hand to her mouth. A traitor tear runs down her face, and she is unable to stop it from falling. I am aching to wrap her up in my arms and comfort her, but I cannot do this. I am stuck with witnessing her pain. My eye falls on the screen of her iPod again. The Angry Songs playlist does include some unexpected gems, and one of them is playing right now, Placebo's cover of 'Running Up That Hill'.

Why do I feel that this song is uncannily ominous? Why do I feel that it might have something to do with my girl's crying jag?

Then my memory is assaulted with the lyrics to this song, and somehow, a light bulb blazes in my brain.

_You don't wanna hurt me,_

_But see how deep the bullet lies._

_Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder._

_There's a thunder in our hearts, baby._

_So much hate for the ones we love?_

_Tell me, we both matter, don't we?_

_Business Class Girl's POV_

I do not know why I let Jake pick the venue of our dinner, our Last Supper as Rosalie has ironically codenamed it. Though he's not privy to this valuable titbit of information, for our Last Supper Jake decides to go to Del Frisco's, just because it is within walking distance of his office.

Not a great fan of US steaks myself, I go for the lobster tail, and my inner bitch rejoices over the prospective amount of the check that Jake is going to have to pick up tonight. Rosalie is rubbing off on me, or at least, her "dump the guy in style" techniques are.

We eat in silence. I am too caught up in eating my lobster tail with style to multitask and keep up polite, meaningless conversation with Jake at the same time. Besides, I really love lobster and I am trying to relish it to the last morsel, without attracting Jake's attention to my subdued expressions of culinary delight. He does not think it fashionable to express one's pleasure with food when eating at a location that is thronged with clients, work associates and prospective clients.

I have worked with Jasper for years, so I know the drill. You don't just eat, you mingle because that's how business is done. Except you should probably refrain from pitching for business when you take your girlfriend out on a date, at least.

Nonetheless, Jacob works non-stop. He is worse than Rosalie, Jasper and I put together. He has taken his investment banker success to a whole new level, and has dragged me through the dust behind him for years.

He resents the fact that I work as an assistant. The fact that I work for Jasper is an added curse to the mix. Yes, because Jacob works with Rosalie, works _for_ Rosalie might be more correct, because Rosalie is his boss. The fact that his boss is my boss's sister does not sit well with him. The fact that the three of us have known each other for years does not sit well with him either. The fact that Jasper and I are practically joined at the hip makes him positively furious.

The fact that, in Jake's opinion, my job is worth shit, makes him look bad. The fact that he thinks my boss is '_taking advantage of me to further his career_', on the other hand, does not sit well with me. The fact that he has been goading me for months to drop everything and follow him to NY to start '_a new life together, free from the strings that bind me to London_' does not sit well with me either. The fact that he thinks I came to NY to cave in to his proposals makes me positively furious.

Tonight is the night I put my foot down. Tonight is the night I call it off. Utterly and irrevocably. Tonight is going to be the first night of the rest of my life.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Thank you to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You rock too. :)

A big, heartfelt thank you to all of you out there who are reading, alerting, reviewing, pimping this little story of mine. Your support means a lot to me. I am posting this today before a 2-week break (I'm going on holiday, and I'm bringing CluelessWard with me, in case he gets chatty and has something to say). So these kids will be back sometime after 22 August... :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – CHAPTER FOUR**

_[November] - Edward_

Light creeps in from an offending crack in the blinds. Another very sunny, very hot late autumn day in Los Angeles. Thousands of excruciating miles away from everything I have always called home, but this is where I work, and for lack of a better word, where I live.

I lazily scratch the back of my head, trying to get up despite my still drunken haze. I eventually make it out of bed and trudge to the bathroom. Lounging in the vapours of the hot shower, my consciousness slowly returns and I remember what I was up to last night. After the premiere of my latest movie, I was forced to go to the after party. Let's just say that, after two hours, I didn't still see it quite that way. I was really having the time of my life, with the prized assistance of some quality booze courtesy of the open bar.

The fun stopped when Angela instructed my bodyguards to stealthily drag me away from the party, in whatever state I was in, before I did something really stupid and ended up on the homepage of TMZ, again. Angela may come across as a sweet, motherly figure, but everyone respects her in L.A., simply because that PTA mom appearance hides the smartest, toughest agent on this side of the Pacific. And she is my agent, my Nazi agent.

_Angela! Cullen, she's going to have a field day with you._

The first coherent thought of this shitty morning comes flashing through my mind. I am supposed to meet her this morning, to discuss my next projects. I am not looking forward to this discussion. I am yearning to take a holiday and go home to England for a while. Angela isn't having any of that, she keeps saying this is my moment, and with the cosmic success I have garnered with my last movie, I can have the upper hand in any negotiation in Hollywood. It isn't time to go on holiday, it is time to work like a professional.

While my mind keeps lashing strings of profanities and lame counter-arguments to Angela's well-founded and bullet-proof points, I find some decent clothes, hurry out of my apartment, and hail a cab downtown to meet her. Her office is on Wiltshire Boulevard and it is quite a long drive from my side of town.

As soon as I cross the threshold of her huge and stylish office, I immediately know that something is off. Jessica, her receptionist, is one of my biggest fans and usually jumps in her seat whenever I arrive. Today, her anxious gaze is darting alternatively between me and the oaken door of Angela's office.

"I'm just going in, Jess, I'm awfully late." I say, making myself at home as usual.

Jessica drops her headset in a rush, jumps out from behind the counter like a ninja and stops me from going any further.

"I'm afraid you may not go in just now, Mr. Cullen."

_Mr. Cullen?_

Jessica is in full professional mode today, and I find myself wondering why.

"Oh, come on, Jess, I'm dreadfully late. She'll be pissed with me as it is."

A few words in my British accent are usually enough to mellow her out, but not this time.

"You'll have to wait, Mr. Cullen. Miss Weber's busy. Please have a seat."

_Miss Weber?_ _When was the last time Jessica called Angela Miss Weber?_

During her frigging job interview I reckon, this is Hollywood, and last names simply don't exist. Everyone is on first name terms with everyone. You have dinner with Debra (Messing), play squash with Hugh (Jackman) and go to the gym with Matt (Damon), which means that I am being called Edward all the time, and Angela is just Angela. There is only one Angela in Hollywood.

I sigh, frustrated and defeated, when I plop myself on one of the couches in the lounge and notice something odd. A black, white and red leather motorcycle jacket has been left on the couch beside me, along with a pristine-looking, top-brand matte black riding helmet. Angela is scared shitless of motorbikes, and none of her clients owns one, as far as I know. Can't blame her though, what if one of us gets injured in a road accident? The one time George (Clooney) was in a crash with his Harley (Davidson), Angela took the keys of the damn steel trap from him for six months.

So the two deadly contraptions must belong to Angela's visitor. But who is that? I am dying to know, but I am forced to wait outside.

Jessica returns to her seat and continues wordlessly with her work. She is uncharacteristically silent, she normally talks to me whenever I come over to see Angela, but today she isn't even looking at me. I feel like I am back in school, waiting in the headmaster's office because I've played truant.

_Something wicked this way comes…_

And the hairs on the nape of my neck instantly stand on end. Eventually, it dawns on me. I _am_ in trouble.

After a long and boring fifteen minutes, the fifteen minutes from hell, Jessica's intercom buzzes and Angela's sweet voice rings in seething tones: "I know he's there, Jess, let him in now."

"Yes, Ang. Will do."

Jessica turns to face me and says coolly "You may go in, Mr. Cullen. Miss Weber is ready to see you now."

I eye her sceptically, rise to my feet and shuffle my way through the huge door of Angela's office. When I hear the door click shut behind me, I really feel like I am going to trial. Angela's ashen face confirms that I _am_ on trial. I try being casual.

"Morning, Ang. Great party last night…"

I hear a faint snicker from a far corner of the office. I do not dare shift my gaze away from Angela's, though.

"Which part, Edward? When you turned up late at your premiere, with the wrong suit, scuffed Doctor Martens from the 80's and no fucking black tie? Or when you puked on Jessica (Alba)'s 15-grand red Valentino dress at the after party, and I had to get Eric and Ben to drag you home before she called her lawyer, the cops, the FBI and unleashed a restraining order on your guts?"

I absently scratch my stubble-covered cheek with my right hand, while I run my left one through my ever-tousled, ever-rebel, ever-bronze trade-mark hair. To my credit, I have the decency to look sheepish and cast my eyes down while she lashes out on me.

"Right. I get it. Are you dropping me?"

Angela doesn't want losers. And though I am in all sorts of demented lists and charts for the Sexiest Man, the Sexiest Smile, the Hottest Bod and the Most in Demand Actor on the sunny side of the planet, and though my last two movies have had a turnover that topped all possible charts in the movie history, I am a disorganised freak. I am not a drunk, I don't do drugs, I just have an obsessive compulsive tendency to fuck things up because I am always absolutely clueless.

And this makes me a loser in Angela's book. She doesn't want losers, she wants determined people who are in this for the long haul. So I figure out that my latest fuck-up at the premiere has granted me a ticket to ride far and away from Angela Weber. I am probably going home to England after all. Yes, because my career will be in shambles in three, two, one…and action!

"No, I'm not dropping you, but right now I'm so pissed I'd send you to England by the mere force of a formidable kick in your skinny British ass!"

Relief and shock wash over me at the same time. Why do I feel like I've been blessed with some kind of miracle? Why do I feel like there's a catch, somewhere around the corner?

"Ang…wait! You're not dropping me? You're serious?"

"Yes, I am. Because I am a sentimental freak, and I've known you since we were kids. I can't do this to you and to my career…as well."

There goes the sentimental. Angela, always on top of business.

"But this is an ultimatum, Edward. Your being clueless was endearing for a start, now it's just plain irritating. I'm going to help you."

"How?"

I am genuinely interested and puzzled. How is Angela going to replace my genetic lack of organisation skills?

Another snicker comes, more forceful this time, from the same corner of the room. Again, with a faint sense of foreboding, I avert my eyes from that corner.

"Edward, you can't do this alone and I am not your frigging baby-sitter. I am your agent. My job is to find you jobs, not to keep you on top of things."

"So?"

"So I've found someone who will do this for you, 24/7."

"So I have a baby-sitter? Now, at the ripe old age of 25? Ang, this isn't even funny!"

"Not a baby-sitter, you moron! I've hired an assistant for you."

I am dumb-founded. Am I not supposed to hire an assistant for myself, if I want one? Oh, but wait: I wouldn't know how to do that….

Angela's gaze wanders to that corner of the room and she says, with a smug tone.

"B, I think you should come forward now. It's time for introductions."

_B as in…Bollocks. You're fucked, Cullen._

_Business Class Girl's POV_

I wake up to a crisp November morning in sunny California. I decamped to Em's house a fortnight ago and adjusting to this semi-tropical weather has not been easy. Not after years in England. Not after years in London. And oddly enough, even if I am relishing the sun, the long days and the unexpected warmth, I miss London. I miss my old job, my old haunts. I miss the rain, the crowded Tube, the neat lines of people waiting for their coffees, for their newspapers.

I miss Jasper and Rosalie, my boss and my BFF, who are, incidentally, brother and sister. The three of us, we've been a like the holy trinity for longer than I can remember. I met Rosalie at Oxford, when we were both at Trinity College, and shared a room in the same residence hall. Turns out Rosalie wasn't out there alone. Her brother Jasper was there too and the three of us became inseparable, through thick and thin, until we parted ways, four years later, when Jasper went to Princeton for his LLM.

When Jasper came back, he got a job at White & Devlin and turned to me for help. I became his assistant, his ghost writer, his alter ego. Meanwhile, Rosalie was taking the investment banking world by storm. And then, courtesy of a blind date orchestrated by Rosebud herself, Jake happened. Until…until it all blew up in my face and all I could do was walk away.

So I left. And Emmett, my burly big brother came to the rescue and told me to come and bunk with him in L.A. Still, it's like someone swept a carpet from under my feet, catching me unawares, and I fell to the floor with a loud thud. I needed a change. I wanted a change. I could not go on working for Jasper forever, basking in his glow, but toiling in the shadows. I knew I could do more and I owed it to myself to try. And then, I could not be in London anymore, not when Jake was coming back to London, for good.

So here I am, on a sunny November morning, heating up coffee and making pancakes in Emmett's kitchen. Seriously, the guy has been living here for years, and it all looks as pristine as the first day. Booming footsteps on the wooden staircase alert me to my dear brother's presence.

"Something smells good in here, BeeBee!" He is glowing like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Em, when is the last time you actually used this kitchen?"

Why do I get the feeling I am not going to like his answer?

"BeeBee, it depends. For cooking? Not ever… For other things… let me think…Remember when Rosie had to close a deal in Palo Alto? Well, she came over to celebrate with me… and over, and over, and over…"

"Stop! I don't want to think about Rose and you in this kitchen! I was trying to have breakfast before you grossed me out!"

Emmett laughs, and so do I. It's liberating, the free banter with my brother, not worrying about how I look, about what I say, about what other people will think. Emmett rushes to my side to steal a pancake and kisses me on my cheek.

"I take it you're settled in all right, little sis? My gross habits aside, that is?"

I shake my head and chuckle some more. I have known Emmett's gross habits since we were kids, nothing that will send me to an early grave. And I have since then developed a high resistance to his pranks.

"Yes, Emmie. And I have a job interview this morning." I am actually pretty nervous. Angela is a friend, but it doesn't mean this is going to win me brownie points.

"Oh, that actor thing? You're going to nail it, BeeBee. After years with Jasper, this is going to be a piece of cake for you. But…are you sure you want a full time job?"

"I need a full time job, Em. I'll take care of the rest in my free time."

"It's your big dream, BeeBee. I don't want you to botch it up because you end up being the workaholic that you are."

I narrow my eyes at him, but he has a point. "I will try to find some balance. I mean, an actor can't be worse than a corporate lawyer. And remember that Jasper is the worst of them, I am speaking from experience."

"That's just because you are awesome, he would always brag to Rose about how extraordinary you are and that he'd never get anything done if that wasn't for you."

"Well, that's changed. I hear that Kate is leaving. He'll have to find another assistant…" I add with an evil smirk.

Emmett laughs outright: "As long as he doesn't snatch you back, I love having my sister back at my side, partners in crime."

"Speaking of which, Em…I'm riding the Tiger today."

Emmett chokes on his coffee.

"Alone? To downtown? To Wilshire? Are you crazy?"

My pride is hurt. The bike is mine, after all. It was left here in California under Emmett's custody. Imagine the state of an MV Agusta F4 CC after months in the London rain. I confront him, my hands on my hips.

"Do you think I can't ride it?"

Em raises an eyebrow. "Of course not, you totally own that steel trap. You ride it better than I do, I'm too heavy. You're the perfect weight and height for it."

I do not cave in. "So what?"

Emmett heaves a deep sigh. "So… Angela is going to have a conniption when she sees you turn up in her office in full riding gear. I'm thinking of her coronaries."

"The hell you are, Emmett Swan."

"All right, all right, hot stuff. The thing is…are you meeting the actor guy too, today?"

I wave my hands dismissively at him. "I wouldn't know. Probably. Likely. So what?"

"Hot stuff, I shouldn't say this, because you're my baby sister. But you look downright fucking hot on that bike. Is that the visual you want to give your new boss, on day one?"

I cross my arms on my chest and smirk back at Emmett. I speculate on his point for a second. London Bella would go back to her room, extract a demure designer pantsuit from her closet, black heels and a briefcase and go to the meeting downtown in a cab. She would attempt to be professional, but she would get emotionally involved too quickly anyway. Like she did with Jasper.

L.A. Bella does not work in a law firm, and does not abide by dress codes anymore. She is allowed to be creative, because this is what she wants to be, and to go a little crazy, on occasion.

L.A. Bella thinks she can walk this fine line, as long as she keeps being a kick-ass professional, because she can't work any other way, and as long as she keeps her life to herself. This is going to be piece of cake, she doesn't know anything about this guy who is her prospective boss. Jasper knew everything about London Bella, and London Bella knew everything about Jasper. There is no distance when there are no secrets. L.A. Bella is going to guard her life and her secrets with the cut-throat instincts of a wild panther.

L.A. Bella goes up to her room, dons a pair of fitted, low-waist black jeans, her riding boots, a fitted white shirt, her leather jacket and goes back downstairs to face a dumbstruck Emmett, who is still clutching his coffee mug in his hand. L.A. Bella grabs the motorbike keys from the kitchen counter and her black helmet, before she descends the stairs to the garage that hosts the Tiger. Behind her shoulders, she can hear Emmett yelling:

"Damn, sister, that guy is not gonna know what hit him…"

An hour later, after a great ride on the Tiger through the busy avenues of downtown L.A., and a coffee plus debrief from Angela on the 'situation', as she calls it, I find myself huddled in a corner of Angela's gigantic office, waiting to face my future boss for the first time.

She actually called me last week to probe my potential interest in this. She knows full well that my primary motivation for coming back to L.A. is to find myself a convenient and peaceful hideout to make my professional dream come true, but she is at her wits' end, and I appear to be her last resort.

I jumped at the opportunity, I needed a job anyway so that I could stash some money aside and keep some sort of regular schedule to my days, and Angela is a friend, I would never dream of leaving her high and dry.

Angela has been utterly clear about this client of hers who is my prospective boss. Edward Cullen is 25 and is one of Angela's best clients. He is a young actor on the rise, with a lot of market leverage under his belt since he starred in a blockbuster teen-movie last year. The first movie he filmed after his admission to worldwide stardom premiered last night, and that was when Angela finally put her foot down.

We hear some sort of commotion in the reception area, and Angela immediately guesses that the infamous Edward Cullen has finally decided to make an appearance.

"He is finally gracing us with his presence, bless the child." Angela is cold and dry, and refers to him as child, even if she is only a year older than I am, and I am, in turn, a couple of years older than Edward. So, maths aside, it's really patronising of Ang to speak of him as a child. He must have pissed her off big time. I venture to ask what he has done to have Angela's panties in twist.

"He's a good guy, B, don't get me wrong, but he's all over the place, literally and metaphorically. He can't manage to settle down in L.A., because he regrets leaving London behind, so he lives like a hobo and messes up half of his commitments in town because he's neither here nor there…"

I nod, the picture is uncannily familiar. He reminds me of Jasper, devoid of his pinstriped Brooks Brothers' suit, of the Jasper fresh out of his LLM, eager to make the most of everything, provided he could only remember what everything was.

"…again, both literally and metaphorically, Ang, let me guess?" I go out on a limb. Angela beams at me.

"B, you got it. That's Edward Cullen the King of Clueless for you. You are a lifesaver. Please say you'll take this job. Please, for me."

Angela lowers her tortoise-rimmed 50-s looking glasses and eyes me pleadingly. I cannot resist her. Not when she pulls out the big guns. I try to hold some ground, though.

"I will take the job. But no second chances, I need time for my other project, Ang. You know that very well. If the brat does not follow the rules, I walk. He will learn the hard way how to walk the walk and how to talk the talk. No second chances. This is my condition."

"Irrevocable?" Angela tries once more. She wouldn't be such a ruthless negotiator if she didn't.

"It's a deal breaker, Ang. No second chances, and if he fucks up, I walk."

Angela sighs and pushes on the intercom button. Jess ushers Mr. Edward Cullen inside. I remain huddled in my corner. Angela says it is imperative that I remain hidden, she says it's for dramatic effect. Hollywood has definitely rubbed off on her.

The guy comes in. My new boss, that is. The first thing I notice is that he looks incredibly young, and genuine, almost too genuine and fresh to be at ease in this town. I am new in L.A., too, but after years in the City, surrounded by sharks in the legal arena, this city of actors and wannabes is a piece of cake for me.

The second thing I notice is that the guy is breathtakingly handsome. As in, stops my breath and drops my jaw handsome. And that's my new boss. And he's clueless. And I'll have to spend a lot of time with him, in close quarters, from now on. Emmett is going to have a field day with this. Game face on, Bella.

The guy finally speaks. What I hear is not entirely to my liking.

"Bollocks!"

I decide to set the record straight from minute one, otherwise this is not going to work. And I am going to kill Angela later, quietly, for getting me into this mess.

"Actually, Mr. Cullen, the name is Bella, Miss Bella Swan. But I'm Miss Swan to you."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Thank you to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – CHAPTER FIVE**

_Edward_

_B as in…Busted._

_B as in…Bang My Head On The Wall Till I'm Dead._

_B as in…Business Class Girl._

_B as in…Bollocks. _

"Actually, Mr Cullen, the name is Bella. Miss Bella Swan to you."

Holy crap!

I know this voice. I know those eyes. I know that mane of hair. I know those hands. I know those toned legs.

My hand flies automatically to cover my mouth. I squint once, willing the impossible vision before my eyes to dissipate, to no avail. Business Class Girl is still standing there, in all of her bad-ass glory. If I thought I was a goner when I first got that glimpse of her designer power suits, it is nothing compared to the useless pile I am reduced to right this minute. She looks as hot and ruthless as Beatrix Kiddo, she is dressed to kill, and I'm calling the cops because the pair of black jeans she's wearing is a freaking murder weapon. I'm the victim, that white thin line over there on the carpet marks the spot where my remains lie.

_Shit!__ I must have said that out loud._

"Actually, Edward, you did. Please take a seat, there is a number of things the three of us should discuss."

Angela finally speaks before I say something highly inappropriate again, because my brain filter is apparently gone. I'd better keep my own counsel, just in case I embarrass myself some more.

Dazed and confused, I approach Angela's mahogany meeting table. Mahogany, the same shade as Business Class Girl's hair in the sunlight.

_Wait, Cullen. S__he has a name. Her name is Bella. Be the gentleman that your mother raised, asshole, and introduce yourself._

I am in front of Bella in a flash and I extend my hand to greet her. She looks at me, from head to toe, taking in my appearance and my vacant stare. As far as first impressions go, it's painful to wonder what her first glimpse of me says to her. What does she think of me? I try and read her countenance, but my guess might be as good as anyone's. Her gaze is keen, but not too stern, serene but not mocking. She isn't judging me, or so I think. She's fishing for information.

_I'll give you all the information you need, Miss Bella Swan._

Eventually, she shakes hands with me and I hold on tighter than usual, because I don't want to let go. Her own grasp is firm and strong, more like a man's. I cannot bear to look her in the eye. If my brain filter is out of commission from a mere glimpse, what would a full frontal encounter with her eyes do to my sanity?

Out of viable alternatives, I let my eyes stray to the chair where Angela is sitting, and I find her analysing this exchange with the keen, narrowed eyes of a hunting hawk. She is sensing danger, and the look on her face screams suspicion. She knows me so well that she might be on to me, already.

Bella (my mind relishes the feeling of saying her name, even if only in my own head) releases her hand from mine and says, "I shall venture to say it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cullen."

_Mr__. Cullen? What's with people today and these formalities? _

I manage to blurt out a clumsy response. "Bella, please, it's Edward." All I want is actually for her to say my given name, to my face, just to bask in the sound of her voice.

_You're a goner, Cullen._

"Mr. Cullen and Miss Swan will do perfectly well for now, thank you. We've only just met."

My face contorts in a mask of horror and Angela comes to my rescue once again. "Edward, what Bella means to say is that you are not working together yet, and it would be too much of an assumption to… assume that, before we all iron out a series of details…"

This is a far cry from Hollywood's customary informality. Business Class Girl must be used to another playground. Not that my own glamorous pond is devoid of sharks, both worlds are teeming with predators, they just wear different clothes and flaunt different hunting habits. Again, compared to my own clueless self (a guy content to fly by the seat of his pants) Business Class Girl wears her black jeans like armour but is equally comfortable in those hot pantsuits I've seen before, and her every move and word appear to be painstakingly schooled.

Her use of my last name is not an affectation, it's a defence technique. She is trying to keep her distance. She wants to have the upper hand in this. Little does she know that she could have the upper hand with me without putting so much effort into it.

Angela's voice is trailing off, while her gaze falls on Bella, her eyes narrowed to slits. She is sending Bella a covert message. Bella picks up from where Angela left off.

"Of course, Ang. That's exactly what I meant. Should we go over the details now? I know you have a busy schedule, and I am actually due back home in a couple of hours."

Angela relaxes in her seat and smiles congenially at Bella. I relax too. We (well, Angela and Bella, at least) spend the next 45 minutes going over my schedule for the next few months, the potential roles she is negotiating for me, the movies I'm already signed up for, and whatever else makes up my typical day.

Bella is in full professional mode now. She has the same look of determined concentration that I remember from her countless phone calls with "Jazz". She is storing information away in that awesome brain of hers, and she is not even taking notes. I watch the two of them, completely mesmerised by this interaction. I am useless to them, they are covering every second of every day in the next six months of my life, and I cannot contribute one valuable syllable to the conversation. After a while, she starts firing questions at Angela.

"Ang, where should we place home base? Should I work from here?"

Angela looks pensive for a second and then answers, without consulting me. "I think you could work from here for the first couple of weeks, learn the ropes from Jess and the like. Then you should probably move your headquarters over to Edward's house."

Bella raises an eyebrow, in silent invitation for Angela to elaborate her statement. Angela kindly obliges. "You'll need to follow him around for most of the day anyway, and the schedule will be crazy, you've seen it."

Angela saves the day.

That's the third time. She is going to raise her commission if I keep this up. "Edward, Jess spends countless hours sorting out your expenses, your tax issues, your bills, your mail and whatnot. Someone outside this office should do that for you, and that certainly falls within Bella's job description."

My head shakes in disbelief, horror creeping up my spine. My apartment is a disaster area. I cannot think of Bella in its vicinity, not without some kind of mortal threat to her health. "But my flat…"

Bella nods. She doesn't look too happy, but then concedes. "I guess it's going to be easier for me to sort out his personal business if I'm around, right?"

Angela is in seventh heaven. I, on the contrary, am in hell. I'm picturing Bella at my house, for most of the day. Sorting out my personal what?

_Business, Cullen, she said business. She is not going to rummage through your undies._

Angela silences me. "The lease for your apartment is up at the end of the month, which is two weeks away. Edward, it is time you looked into something more permanent anyway."

Bella throws in her two cents, and my pleas are completely ignored. They do this better without me, anyway.

"Have you looked into potential new locations yet? I guess you do have a realtor that you work with on a steady basis…"

"Yes, Bella. Jessica has looked at a few options, not that Edward has checked out any of the fact sheets that we prepared. Edward…?"

I open my mouth but no meaningful sounds will get out of it. Bella precedes me again.

"I'll have a look at those. If we only have a fortnight to choose, be packed and be moved, we have to make this quick and painless."

"Bella, I don't think that will be a big problem, the moving thing, I mean. That's going to be child's play compared to the rest."

"Speaking of which… Ang, I think we should come up with a standard communication protocol among the three of us. All of our calendars and emails should be in sync, otherwise I can't keep track of where Edward is and what needs to be attended to first."

Angela nods, glowing like a kid on Christmas morning. Even I can tell that Bella is the answer to her prayers. This is a life-altering event for Angela, all of my day-to-day crap will be off her back, and thrust directly onto Bella's.

"Yes, of course, Bella. That's a good point. What do you suggest we do?"

Bella leans her head to one side and taps her nose with her index finger, pondering Angela's question for a second. "I don't want to use our personal cell phones for this – we are entitled to our own space. Those should be for emergency only, as in '_Fort Knox is being raided_' emergency. What about two new blackberries, one for Mr Cullen and one for me?"

Angela's smile is beaming. "I will have Jessica buy them for you…"

Bella interrupts her. "No, Ang. I can do that. I'll just liaise with Jessica and be done with it. That way, we can be all systems go by Monday morning. What I'm more concerned about is the moving thing, it's going to be back-to-back with Mr Cullen's last photo shoot and interview in town before he's leaving for Vancouver."

_Yeah, right, Cullen. Vancouver. The shoot for the second teen movie. Wait, am I going to be without Bella for the length of my stay?_

"But you are coming along, Miss Swan, aren't you?" I have no control whatsoever on my brain filter and I blurt my question out before I can stop myself. Bella, though, appears unfazed but looks to Angela for support.

"Ang, we didn't discuss this. Would it be appropriate…?"

My shoulders fall. She _is_ reluctant, she doesn't want to follow me to Vancouver. Worse, she thinks she shouldn't come with me. She thinks it would make her look bad. She doesn't want to spend time with me.

"B, I think you should…No, let me rephrase that. I am sure that, for your own peace of mind, you will find it a lot more convenient to follow Edward while he's on the road. You are going to be the first port of call for everything that relates to him, on a daily basis. Until now, I used to do this…"

Bella sighs, apparently convinced. "But now it's my turn, right. It makes sense, after all. I'll have to get used to it. Don't worry, Ang. It's nothing new. With Jazz I was practically on call 24/7."

They discuss some details about dealing with press representatives and similar brouhaha. I understand that Angela is handing over to Bella most of the press contacts who are interested in me on a regular basis, with strict instructions to cut the bullshit and go only for the real deal. I never realised that Angela put so much effort in keeping me afloat. Now Bella is taking over all of this, too.

"Ang, how do you wish me to deal with scripts and the like? You must go through tons of those. Do you actually have the time to check them all out?"

_Scripts. Rehearsing lines with Bella. Ah, the possibilities…_

This is a thorn in both Angela's side and mine. I love reading scripts but we are literally swamped with them. Angela tries to select the most attractive ones for me but our criteria don't often match. It's a constant complaint.

"Bella, actually, I was hoping you could help out with that. Would you mind going through them with Edward, try to learn what he likes, and make notes for me? I really would value your opinion on that."

_I'll tell you what I like, Bella. Gladly. Repeatedly._

After my lewd lower brain has had its five seconds of solace, my upper brain registers that Angela is speaking these words with an unusual reverent tone, as if Bella was some kind of higher authority in this field. Bella nods and then turns to me for the first time in the last hour, she is deliberately switching topics.

"Mr. Cullen, will you have a lot of stuff to be moved into the new house?"

_She's talking to you, Cullen. Answer, before she thinks you__'re a complete moron._

I muster up some courage, send an S.O.S. to my brain, and look at Bella right in the eye for the first time since I crossed the threshold of Angela's office earlier this morning. To my utter and complete surprise, I don't explode or go into shock. I feel completely at ease under her scrutiny, because she's looking at me with the same keen, benign expression she bestowed on me when she shook my hand.

"I normally live out of three suitcases. That's about the size of what I'm moving."

Silence falls over the room, that is, until Bella comments, her voice like a velvet caress. "I think I can handle that, Mr. Cullen."

Angela is about to say something, but holds her peace for a second. I cannot hold Bella's gaze any longer, and I automatically cast my eyes down, suddenly very interested in the creases of my leather jacket. I barely hear her, as she's talking to Angela again, wrapping up this long and eventful meeting.

"Angela, I think we covered everything. I'm starting on Monday as agreed. Remember my condition. It's a deal breaker".

_Condition? Deal breaker?_

I don't want to leave her, but she's faster than me. Dumbfounded, I stand up to say goodbye and she's out the door in a flash. I gape like a fish at Angela, who is beyond diverted.

"Edward, she will either fix you or break you. I'll see you tonight at the party. You may go now, wonder boy."

_Damn. Angela's monthly bash at her house. Tonight. Is Bella going to be there?_

_Business Class Girl's POV_

"I normally live out of three suitcases. That's about the size of what I'm moving."

I'm trying to keep my distance from this young man. I insist on using last names, and speak mainly to Angela through the whole ordeal. I try looking at him as little as possible.

I succeed, to the point that I mentally compliment myself with a well-earned slap on my shoulder. I succeed, until he utters those two sentences, and all my plans go astray. I quickly switch from compliments to ass-kicking, because it's my fault. I asked him the damn question and, like the polite young man that he is, he answers truthfully. This is what knocks the air out of my lungs. His honesty. He is too genuine for this city, for this pool of sharks.

When I worked in the Magic Circle, Jasper and I had a wicked pastime. We could pinpoint the exact breaking point of every single trainee down to a minimal margin of error. Our expertise had been honed over the years and we could predict exactly who would quit and when. We could read all the signs. Based on my expertise, a man like Edward Cullen looks like he can have the stamina and trustworthy appearance of a great lawyer but, on the downside, he is too honest. That alone could crack him, at any given point in time.

Edward's spontaneous confession touches at my heartstrings. He sounds lost and alone. For all my own wanderings, I always had somewhere and someone to come home to. Suitcases are for business trips and holidays. Home and closets are a different planet. Everything about Edward's statement screams temporariness. He needs some stability, somewhere. Something to keep him grounded, and there has to be something, somewhere. But I know there is, because in all this mess, he looks like he has a good head on his shoulders anyway.

Why am I so convinced of this? Easy: Angela.

Angela is proof positive for me that the guy is worth a shot, that he isn't a complete loser. I can deal with chronically disorganised freaks. But losers? Not so much.

I'm now standing in the reception area, talking to Jessica and making arrangements for our blackberries to be delivered on Monday. She also updates me on the status of various Cullen-related issues. This isn't a typical, peaceful handover. It feels like witnessing Britain's handover of Hong Kong to China all over again. The air ripples with tension. Jessica looks like a huge weight is off her chest. I can't resist questioning her about this.

"Jess, what's the deal with this guy? Everyone's making him sound like such an asshole…"

Jess stops in her tracks. She looks at me like I've grown a second head.

"God, Bella, no. He's great. Nice even. He's just…"

I get it. I decide to help her out. "All over the place?"

"Check."

I go on. I want to find out more. "Time-consuming?"

"Check."

I nod. Despite Angela's protestations, despite Em's encouragement, this is _not_ going to be a piece of cake. Goodbye to my dreams of glory and regular schedules. They're all out the window. I realise very quickly that this job is going to be more of a mission than a profession.

History is repeating itself; I will be dealing with another Jasper. Out with the contracts, enter the scripts. Out with the meetings, enter the photo shoots, interviews and filming. Out with business lunches, enter the after parties.

I've barely left one blackberry behind and I'm already putting my name down for another. Talk about golden cages, but it's the only way this can actually work.

I say goodbye to Jessica and head for the elevator. I feel a jolt of static electricity in the air, someone is standing beside me and they're clearing their throat to attract my attention.

"Miss Swan, are you headed back home? Maybe we could ride together."

Mr. Cullen – _Edward_ – is stepping inside the elevator with me.

"Actually, Mr. Cullen, I have my own transportation, but thanks for the offer."

He looks briefly crestfallen, but does not relent. "Maybe I can ride with you, instead? So we can discuss all those arrangements together?"

I smile. I don't even need to find an excuse to turn him down. We have now reached the foyer and we're headed were the Tiger is parked outside the building, waiting for me. The Tiger will help me.

His jaw goes slack as he is watching me hop on to my motorbike, my helmet still in my hands.

"As you see, Mr. Cullen, my vehicle only sits one. I will see you on Monday."

I tip my helmet at him in silent salute and ride off into the traffic of Wilshire Blvd.

* * *

_Right...back to a normal posting schedule, and apologies again for leaving you hanging for two weeks._

_Just so you are prepared for CluelessWard's reaction to the Tiger, here's a visual for you of the MV Agusta F4 CC owned by Bella (mind you, only 100 of these jewels have been produced...):_

_http: / www . gulum . net / motor / resimler / MvAugusta_F4CC_2007_01_1024x768 . jpg [as usual, get rid of unnecessary spaces..]_

_For those who are not familiar with the legal crap, this is a wiki entry that explains you what the Magic Circle is..._

_http: / en . wikipedia . org / wiki / Magic_Circle_ (law)  
_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Actually, the readers should shortly consider also thanking Lory from the bottom of their hears. She has very warmly invited me to "procure them to get it on before chapter 15, otherwise I'll stop reading your fanfic". This is the main reason why, my crazy-ass chapter outline aside, you might expect citrus juice in CluelessTown before long. Just sayin'...

Meanwhile, let's see what CluelessWard thinks of the Tiger and, without further ado, it seems he has a party to go to!

Thank you to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**

* * *

BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 6**

_Edward_

"As you see, Mr. Cullen, my vehicle only sits one. I will see you on Monday."

I cannot believe my eyes while I am mentally berating, slapping and kicking myself for being so dumb that I wasn't able to put two and two together.

The leather jacket. The black helmet. Vehicle that only sits one.

_It__'__s her bike, Cullen._

Bella has a motorcycle. This thing is black, sleek and heavy. It looks powerful and pretty damn fast, as if its every curve has been designed by the wind and, fuck my life, it makes Bella look like the hottest thing under the sun. She owns it. My Business Class Girl is a bad ass rider. Her black helmet has a dark-tinted visor that hides her face from view and her long mahogany locks are flying free in the wind as she rides swiftly away from me.

I am, once again, gaping like a fish in front of the unbelievably sexy display of power and independence before my eyes. Beatrix Kiddo, my ass. I'd pick Bella Swan to avenge me anytime.

_What else does she ride so well, Cullen? Wouldn__'__t you like to know__…__?_

A loud whistle and a muffled sound, a little short of a catcall, shake me from my x-rated reverie.

"That's one hot piece of metal, and a hotter piece of ass is riding it. Wish she was riding me instead."

I growl, in an uncontrolled animal instinct to protect my own from danger. I know this voice. It belongs to the emperor of assholes, to the uncontested king of douchebags in this town. Unluckily for me, this jerk is another actor on the rise, and is also represented by Angela.

James Warner, this is the cad's name, is also slightly irritated by the fact that I am a tad more famous than he is at the moment. It's the one and only person with whom I actually brag about my taxing notoriety. I take delight in vexing him but, in a fairly non-British way, I drop all appearances of being politically correct when I do.

Fuck manners. He just said that Bella is a piece of ass.

_Why is he still breathing, Cullen? Do something._

"James. What an unpleasant surprise. That lady is my new personal assistant. I highly advise you to refrain from referring to her with such lewd terminology."

_Translation: keep your fucking hands off my girl, asshole._

"Oh, Angela got an assistant for her wonder boy. What, you can't sort out your fan mail by yourself?"

"I will say this once, Warner. Screw you."

I know Angela will give me grief for this, but I could always say that I was provoked. I could always rat James out and tell Angela that he was verbally abusing Bella. Not that I would put it past him to abuse her, period.

At the mere thought, my stomach is churning in disgust.

Warner does not desist from teasing me. I listen with feigned indifference.

"Your assistant, huh? It means that I can wine and dine her freely, while you're not allowed to do this, right? Unless you want her to dump a sexual harassment lawsuit on your doorstep, eh, Cullen?"

I growl again, I am crouching for battle like a tiger.

_The hell you__'__ll wine and dine her, asshole. Stay away from my girl._

"Again, Warner, and I'm saying this one time too many. Back the fuck off. Bella's a friend of Angela's. A dear, old friend of Angela's. I doubt she'd be pleased to know you are harassing her staff."

At the mention of Angela's name, his smug expression fades. I take this as my cue for a dramatic exit, and hail a cab.

_One for the team, Cullen._

Once I'm back at the flat, I can't resist calling Alice, even if it's probably early to late evening in Milan. No need to worry, because she will be beyond thrilled to hear from me, as she always is.

On second thoughts though, I am not so thrilled to speak to her, because my sister has an uncanny ability to read my moods and, sure as hell, she is going to corner me into telling her everything about Bella.

Nonetheless, I can't stop myself from hitting the speed dial, since I virtually have no friends in this town, and my sister is the only person on earth that sees through me. There are no secrets between us and she will probably help me sort through the tangle of emotions that are knotted up in my head. Business Class Girl will be my assistant, my personal assistant. To have and to hold.

_Cullen, I__'__m pretty sure that__'__s not in her contract. Not in this one, at least._

A lurching feeling at the back of my head tells me that I don't really want to spill the beans to Alice. Not yet. I want to revel a bit longer in the fact that some twist of fate has allowed me to share some part of my journey with my long lost Business Class Girl.

_Lord, Cullen, you__'__re turning into such a melodramatic._

Alice answers on the third ring. I hear busy sounds and muttering voices in the background. The poor thing must be still at work.

"Edward, brother dear, what can I do for you?"

"Well, good evening to you too, Alice…"

I'm suddenly feeling like a lonely puppy, unceremoniously abandoned by a careless human on the curb of the highway. That's what I get for thinking that the world revolves around my sorry ass. I steel myself, as Alice realises she has hit a nerve.

"Eddiekins, I'm sorry, I'm just…it's that…"

Alice stuttering? Since when does she stutter? This must be a bad day for the Cullen kids worldwide. Dear Alice, welcome to the club. We can mope together.

"Having a bad day, Ali? If you're busy I'll talk to you tomorrow…"

I try to bail out, half-disappointed, because I'll lose my psychiatric help, and half-relieved, for exactly the same reason.

Alice huffs over the phone. That's when I know she is going to drop whatever she's doing to listen to my musings. I don't even have to pull the big brother card, that's the extent of how spoiled I am, when it comes to my little sister.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I'm just freaking out over this collection. Everything is going wrong, time is running out, and half of the designs are mine. I'm sorry. I'm just stressed out."

My heart goes immediately out to her, because this just isn't the Alice I know. She always exudes self-confidence, knows her own worth and her strength and doesn't take shit from anyone, yours truly included. I don my big, protective brother cap and decide to help Alice out.

"Short Stuff, you're going to take them all by storm. Vogue won't know that hit them, literally. Fate must be quite clueless, if it's set out to mess with you. You're an awesome designer, you're resourceful and you're the most creative person I know. You're going to nail this. Besides, if this isn't enough to cheer you up, I have something to tell you. And this is going to make your day."

Silence. Only one thing can shut Alice's mouth. Interest, pure, unadulterated and unbridled interest. She's intrigued, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head, while she's trying to figure out what the hell I'm dumping on her doorstep.

"Edward, is there something I need to know?"

Bingo. Alice is probably the only thing in the world I am not entirely clueless about. Her interest is piqued, and now I'm trying to devise a water-tight method to vent my frustrations without shedding my entire closet of emotional underpants to her. A bloke needs to retain some semblance of dignity, somehow.

_Cullen, you relinquished your last shred of dignity on a Boeing 747 nine months ago._

"Angela put her foot down today. I've been officially labelled as a lost cause."

I hear some shuffling feet in the background and the clicking sound of a door closing. The fact that Alice has retreated to closed quarters for this conversation is an indication of her eagerness.

"Edward, is she dropping you? Mum and Dad will be devastated. What did you do this time?"

I take the blow like a man. Alice is right. I'm good at what I do but I never took it seriously, not until today. Not until I spent the better part of this morning walled up with Angela and Bella, going over my commitments at the speed of sound. I only just realised today that I want to be in this for the long haul, because I like what I do. I want to do it to the very best of my abilities and, to achieve that, I need to get my shit together. That is, if I don't want to be hurled overboard by a tidal wave.

"No, Ali. But what have I done that you've not already seen on Popsugar this morning? That must be the one advantage of the time difference, right? You get the trash first."

Alice scoffs. She knows I'm berating myself more than necessary, and it always pisses her off. I decide to be mature and actually give her an informative answer.

"Angela's not dropping me but I've been served an ultimatum. As of today, your brother can boast a personal assistant."

Short Stuff cannot contain her enthusiasm any longer, she feels smug and ten-feet tall because she suggested it a long time ago. I always flatly refused.

"Oooohhh….so, who's the organisational genius in the family? You've got the looks, and I've got the skills, Mr. Hot Bod. Admit it, I was right all along."

It would be pointless to resist her. I cave in.

"Of course you were right, and if your older brother was a little less clueless, he would have listened to your advice sooner. But now…"

Anxiety creeps up in my voice. Now comes the hard part.

_And you mean that literally, Cullen._

"Edward, please tell me you're not going to make that girl's life miserable with your antics. Oh no, wait. I got it. Angela found you a guy assistant? A gay assistant? That must be all the rage in Hollywood."

She's actually getting a kick out of this, which works in my favour because it means I have succeeded in making her forget her complaints.

"No, Alice, I'm not stuck with a bender, as much as that would divert you. I'm only bending to Angela's will. I'm not going to make Bella's life miserable, either, if I can help my idiotic self."

Short Stuff does not relent. She's on a manhunt for information and she can tell, from years of practice, that I'm holding something back.

"Bella? Who's Bella?"

She's playing cat and mouse with me, because we both know that she isn't this dumb, not by a long shot, not even when she's unconscious.

"Bella is my assistant, Alice. Actually, her full name is Isabella Swan. Miss Swan to me, because we're not even on first name terms - I'm Mr. Cullen to her."

Alice can tell that I'm disappointed. There are no sizeable mirrors in my flat but even I can tell that I'm pouting like a wilful child.

"Edward, something is up and I can feel it. I'm busy, busier than you'll ever be even if you happen to snatch an Academy Award, but I am still on this godforsaken phone because you are keeping something from me, and this something is bugging you. Why are you in a strop, if all of your problems have been solved? And by someone else, I might add?"

"Alice…It's her. Bella…it's her…"

"Edward, you lost me. You'll need to be a little more eloquent for me to empathise with you."

"It's her, Alice. The girl I saw on the plane…Bella…she's the same…"

I know I sound incoherent, but at the moment it's the best my befuddled brain can do. Alice will understand and forgive (maybe).

"Edward, let me get this straight. Isabella Swan and Business Class Girl are the same person? Your new assistant is the same girl you've been fantasising about for the last nine months?"

I draw a deep breath. Lucky for me, Alice has her wits about her and has figured this out without my help.

"Yes, Alice, that's correct."

"So, to cut a long story short, you want to shag your assistant?"

My sister does have a way with words, sometimes. If I was drinking coffee, I'd definitely be choking on it. I wince, only partially shocked. After all, she's got it right.

"Alice, no, I don't…Well, I do…Ungghn…Why do things have to be so complicated?"

"Are they? She doesn't like you, then?"

"Alice, she doesn't even know me, and she calls me Mr. Cullen, for god's sake. It's not like she's being friendly, is she?"

Alice chuckles. I'm happy to be of service - apparently my woes do amuse her.

"You silly boy. She's trying to build a wall between the two of you, which, if anything, means that she doesn't exactly dislike you."

"Alice, you lost me there."

Alice sighs impatiently over the phone. "Ah, guys and their non-existent behavioural analysis skills. If she found you repellent, she wouldn't need to keep you at a safe distance, would she?"

I finally get her point. Understanding dawns on me and I allow myself to feel hope, for a split second.

"Oh…Oh…I see…But Alice…now what?"

"I assume you still want to shag her? Work ethic notwithstanding?"

"Well…" That's the very eloquent answer I come up with.

"Right, try not to make her life impossible."

"Alice, I don't want to do that. But what can I do, for her, I mean?"

Alice huffs again. She's getting more and more impatient, probably because my male, testosterone-impaired brain cannot grasp some self-evident truth of the female universe.

"Be yourself. She'd call you out on your shit anyway."

I nod through the phone, quite unaware that she is unable to see me.

"And get to know her, Edward Cullen. What do you know about her? 'Awesome' and 'beautiful' are not acceptable answers. Think."

I wrack my brains, sifting through all of the things I know about her. Realisation strikes me. I smile to myself.

"She is very picky about her tea."

Alice chuckles. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I've seen her three times, Alice, and she always asks for Earl Grey, no sugar, no lemon, no milk. And it must be in a mug, not in a cup."

"Well, that's a start. Keep going, Edward. I'll leave you to it, the world of fashion awaits."

The phone clicks and the line goes dead. My sister has bestowed her ounce of wisdom upon my clueless self and has now left me to my own devices. I still have to survive Angela's party tonight.

I throw a good look around. The flat is a mess, I am a mess. In an attempt to sort myself out, I start cleaning and tidying up. I go through piles of discarded papers, take-out boxes, mismatched socks, and untied shoes scattered all over the place. For about three hours, the mindless task keeps my musings at bay, until I realise it's close to 8 o'clock and I still have to get ready to go to Angela's.

What do I do? What am I wearing? I can't call Alice again. I need to do this alone. Right. I make a mental to do list and actually count the items off on my fingers. I guess I really am Alice's brother, after all. Shower, towel-dry hair, find clean underpants, find an un-rumpled shirt, find a pair of presentable jeans, find shoes, get beanie, get out of the house, get to Angela's. Easy? We'll see.

I jump in the cold shower first, to clear my head. Again.

_Cullen, seriously? Who are you kidding? Cold shower in November?_

I go through my routine, running around the flat barefoot and with a towel around my waist, trying to find my clothes and shoes, one excruciating item at a time. All the while, I cannot rid my mind of the image of Bella meandering through the crazy traffic of downtown L.A. on her hot, black bike. She looked so focused and in control, lost in her own bubble of unreal speed.

_How would it feel to ride behind her, her hair on your face, Cullen?_

I practically run through the door, dodge a few paps who are, as usual, waiting outside to follow me everywhere, and manage to call Eric and Ben (my security guys) to come and collect me. Angela insists that I call them instead of hailing cabs, and for once, I actually decide to listen to her advice.

Eric and Ben arrive in a few minutes and drive me to Angela's in a flash. Angela lives in a huge but discreet mansion in Beverly Hills. It only befits her status of established Hollywood mogul and, from her location, she can actually keep a close eye on some of her clients.

Angela spots me right away and now, in the quiet of her private home, I can discard the knit beanie that's become the disguise of choice for my rebel bronze locks. She greets me congenially, with a fashionable display of air kisses.

"Edward, dear, how good of you to come!" As if she expected otherwise. These monthly parties are designed so that she can to gather up her clients and other contacts in the business. Angela tells me it's called networking. Not that I ever bothered to catch the nuts and bolts of it, though.

I smile at her, and surreptitiously scan the crowd. There's only one partygoer I'm interested in. Angela catches my wandering eye.

"She's not here. Yet. You can rest easy, for a while."

I am relieved, overjoyed even, now that Angela has confirmed my suspicions. Bella is going to be here, too. It suddenly makes sense to me, because from now on, in her capacity as my assistant, Bella will have to be on speaking terms with most of the people attending tonight, anyway.

_You heard that, people? She__'__s MY assistant._

I frown, as I think back on Bella's last words this morning.

"Angela, what was Bella's talk about deal breakers? Anything I need to know?"

Angela's opening her mouth to address my question when she abruptly turns her head. I follow her gaze down to the gates, which we can clearly see from the balcony we're standing on.

I can hear the distinct sound of a powerful engine roaring. It doesn't sound like a motorbike, though.

_Good for you, Cullen! Another sight like that, and you__'__d have a coronary__…__At 25._

Everyone else turns, too, to have a good look at the commotion. The uproar is caused by the latest addition to the party. It's a shiny, curvy and red sports car, with a prominent Dodge logo on its hood. I've seen those ones around (not that many, though), and I'm pretty sure it's a Dodge Viper. A burly man, with curly and close-cropped dark hair, swiftly walks around the front of the car to open the passenger door.

An ominous sense of anticipation seizes me, as I stare transfixed at the newcomer opening the passenger door of the red Viper.

An all-too-familiar whistle rings in my ear and, from the corner of my eye, I see James Warner's sorry ass materialise beside me. This is getting too old, too soon.

"Hot car, hot passenger. That's a given. I'm dying to know who she is." He says, even waggling his eyebrows.

As my sole reaction, I raise my own eyebrows and remain sullenly silent.

"That must be a SHE, and a hot SHE, from the way the guy rushed to open her door."

I cannot rein myself in now, though we're at Angela's.

"Or maybe he's just the gentleman that you're not, Warner."

_Screw you, scumbag._

I fall silent again. The guy, all dressed up in a light grey suit that looks tailor-made, is finally grasping a tiny hand extended from the inside of the car. A jean-clad, slim and toned leg follows this mysterious hand.

With a fleeting thought, I realise that everyone else has gone silent and this scene is sort of playing out in slow motion. This looks nothing short of the arrival of Brangelina.

The guy finally turns to face the music, so to speak, and I could slap myself for the second time today. It's Linebacker Em. He cleans up nicely, but it's him, there's no mistaking that wall of rippled muscle.

_Wait a minute, Cullen! If that__'__s Linebacker Em, then SHE__…_

My idiotic self's got something right this time. I take a deep breath and steel myself to cast a slow, deliberate glance at the girl who is now standing beside Linebacker Em, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.

It's her. It's Bella. She came to Angela's party, with Linebacker Em in tow, and riding in his fuck-hot car.

_What is it with this girl and transportation? Can__'__t she ride something lame like an Austin Metro?_

I allow myself to take one good, appreciative look at her, while the distance that separates us still prevents me from embarrassing myself again. She's dressed simply, but her unassuming attire does nothing to detract from her natural grace.

She is stunning, in her curve-hugging dark blue jeans. There are no strategically placed rips this time, those jeans look so pristine and glamorous that they must be designer made. Her outfit is completed by a halter top that shows off her toned shoulders and arms. Its emerald green hue compliments perfectly her chocolate brown eyes and her mahogany locks and, with a tinge of smugness, I notice that it's nearly as green as my own eyes.

_You self-centred ass. That__'__s not the reason she chose it, Cullen. _

She looks a good foot shorter than Linebacker Em who, in turn, is maybe a couple of inches taller than me. She must not be wearing heels, unlike the rest of the girls here in Tinsel Town.

Before I can approach them and make myself known, Angela is engulfing her in a hug.

"Bella, my dear! Welcome! Come, there's a lot of people I want you to meet."

And just like that, Bella's gone, whisked away by Angela and a whole crowd of other people.

_You__'__re on a mission, Cullen. Find her._


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Thank you to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

**

* * *

**

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 7**

_BCG's POV_

The ride on the Tiger through LA's crazy traffic is exhilarating. I can feel the cool November wind on my face and the only sounds that matter are the roar of the Tiger's engine and the unsteady rhythm of my breath, as I try to recover from the first meeting with my new boss, Edward Cullen.

Rosalie is going to freak out. The movie that has changed Edward's career overnight is based on a book phenomenon that's Rosalie's latest obsession. When she learns who my new boss is, my best friend will become my personal stalker.

All too soon, even before I can sort out my first thoughts about him, I'm already in Venice Beach, rushing past the security guard at the gated community where Em and I live. I sweep through the garage door with a flourish and skid to a stop in front of a very impatient Emmett.

How do I know he's impatient? Because he's balancing a baseball bat from one hand to another and he's humming the theme from the Simpsons'. That's his childish way of letting me know I've kept him waiting. Meet Emmett Swan, a 5-year-old's brain trapped in the body of a 34-year-old man.

As I break free from the confines of my helmet, gloves and jacket, he leans back on the doorframe, pinning his arms on the baseball bat. From this odd crouching posture, he looks at me, expectantly. "So?"

"So, what?" I retort, making him work for it, for a bit.

"So the actor, for fuck's sake! Rosie tells me he's like the ultimate Hollywood hottie."

I scoff, Rosalie will hunt me down very shortly, because Emmett blabbed. Already.

"Well, I have a new job, with a new blackberry, starting next Monday."

I try to hide my uneasiness, while Emmett waggles his eyebrows. He's been talking to Rosie about my new boss, and this is not a good omen.

"And the fact that 45% of the worldwide female population over the age of 5 has the hots for him leaves you completely unfazed?"

I walk around Emmett and climb the stairs from the garage into the main living area. Emmett follows me like a bloodhound.

"He's a very polite guy." I wave my hands dismissively as I grab two beers from the fridge.

"A very polite guy? Newsflash, sister. I have a subscription to GQ, and that goddamn photo shoot he did? Not fair to the brotherhood, man, not fair."

I'm genuinely puzzled now. I scrunch my eyebrows at Emmett, silently begging him to elaborate.

"The brotherhood, sister! Talk about evening the playing field a little, for fuck's sake! Every guy on earth is busted, after those pics. Damn, even Rosie has one of them as wallpaper on her laptop. Rosie!"

I listen to Emmett's tirade, completely flabbergasted. He spits his customary endearment for Rosalie out as an expletive and looks utterly incensed. Who would have thought that an actor, and rather from the non-sporty side of the tracks, I might add, could put a chink in Emmett's self-confidence? That's a first.

My brother is six foot four and there's not a single ounce in his body that's not hyper-toned and well-exercised muscle. His physique is powerful and striking. That's because he's been a sporty guy from the sandbox, and he was well on his way to make his career as a professional NFL football player when he busted his kneecap in his senior year at USC. Goodbye to Linebacker Emmett, enter Coach Swan. He's now a football coach and personal trainer, and completely loves his job.

On top of that, while he inherited, like me, our father's brown hair and eyes, Emmett has retained an open, childlike face with bright eyes and the cutest dimples you could ever imagine on a grown man's face without making him look stupid. The illusion that Emmett is cute, though, disappears as soon as he opens his mouth.

These are the main reasons, and then some, why I'm all the more astounded to listen to him ranting about this unexplainable (to me, at least) and unexpected bout of male insecurity in the face of a much younger man. He's not prone to this kind of stunts, for much like Rosalie, he always exudes self-confidence and, if anything, he borders on being a smart-ass.

I think he needs positive reinforcement and decide to throw in my tuppence.

"Yes, he's good-looking. So what? He's an actor."

Emmett looks at me like he thinks I should be committed. Stat.

"Sis, have you looked at him? That man is unreal and it's not just the looks. The things he's done in barely two years…I googled him, I know."

I choke on my beer. I was wrong. It's not just my BFF that's about to turn into a stalker, my brother is also on board. The enemy is here, in my own home.

"You did what?"

"You're gonna be on call 24/7 with that guy. I wanna know who is spending time with my little sister." His voice has turned abruptly serious.

"Emmett, I think he's a nice guy. Angela wouldn't ask me to work with him if he wasn't."

Emmett walks around the kitchen island, grabs his beer from the counter and puts his hands on my shoulders.

"BeeBee, his life is crazy. The paparazzi follow him round as if he was a fox in the hunting season. Do you really know what you're getting yourself into? Do you really want to get sucked into this chaos?"

Emmett is being a loving, protective brother and with this flash of insightfulness, he has hit the nail right on the head. Will LA Bella be able to avoid London Bella's mistakes?

"He looks so young and lost to me. I guess I won't know until I try, Emmie."

He hugs me, without warning. "Don't you get hurt while you figure that out, BeeBee."

I hug him back and we both fall silent for a moment. All the years I spent in London, I really missed being with my brother, talking things over, having someone who looks out for me. I realise these are no longer momentary perks, and that I am not going to lose Emmett again when I fly back to London, because I'm not flying back anywhere. I am here to stay.

My epiphany is interrupted by two things at the same time.

Em breaks the moment, saying "Don't we have a party to go to, hot stuff?" At the same time, I can hear Warren Zevon howling 'Werewolves of London' from the bottom of my jacket pocket, and I freeze in Em's arms. My phone is ringing.

I don't want to take this call, but I have to, because if I ignore him, Jake will not relent and the rest of my day will turn to shit.

Emmett knows this well and tries to stop me from reaching for my iPhone. "You don't have to talk to Mr. Asshole Extraordinaire, BeeBee. Let him rot."

Jeez! Rosalie has even passed on her abusive nickname for Jake. I really have no secrets left. It's a tad depressing to contemplate that my brother and his girlfriend are gossiping behind my back like old ladies and are in cahoots to see that my ex-boyfriend meets the end that he deserves.

I square my shoulders and get ready for battle, as I wiggle out of Emmett's grasp and yank my phone from my jacket pocket. Emmett backs away, surrendering to the lost cause.

"Bella…Bella…! Why are you ignoring my calls? Where are you? Who is with you?"

Jake drowns me in an endless stream of invasive, inane questions. Some things never change.

"I am perfectly entitled to ignore your calls, Jake, and good afternoon to you, too. I see your manners haven't improved since we last met."

I try to sound icy and detached. It's a great thing there's a whole continent and an ocean between us, and that he can't actually see me, because I am quivering already, and not in a good way.

"Why do you disrespect me, Bella? Why don't you come back to me?"

He's so all over the place that he can't even insult me properly, without trying to win me back at the same time. The guy has no strategy skills whatsoever.

"What would you want with a woman who disrespects you, Jake? You're better off without me. I know I'm better off without you."

I try to be assertive, but it hurts. Every single spiteful word, every witty comeback takes a toll on my soul. This is not me, this is business Bella. This is the ruthless negotiator that juggles conflicting deadlines and calendars and creates time where it doesn't exist. This is the girl who doesn't take shit from anyone.

BeeBee, on the contrary, wouldn't hurt anyone and abhors conflict and verbal abuse, if she can help it. She is so sick of pressure, of mind games and competitions that all of her personal interactions outside work are simple and linear, in a very no-fuss no-worry fashion.

This is why Bella knew for a fact, from scratch, that Jake was bad news, but BeeBee could not resist his flowers, his kindness and his affection. That is, what little there was until he revealed his true self.

This is why I must be bad ass and abusive with Jake now, not because offence is the best defence, but because I need to protect myself; not because some skewed moral sense dictates that I am entitled to get even, but because I cannot allow him to rule my life, to thrive on my insecurities even from far away.

This is why Bella can find the strength to hand Jake's ass to him over the phone, but cannot guarantee BeeBee's safety in the process.

"I want a woman at my side, and that woman should be you, Bella, and you know it."

This is the last straw. He does not dictate conditions. He has no bargaining power over me. Not anymore.

"Give me a good reason why, Jacob Black. Give me a good reason beyond your own fucking convenience."

I wait for a few seconds, because I know that he'll come up short. He has no reasons, at least none that I'd consider valid in my book, or none that he can openly admit to my face. Not even the elementary and cheesy "because I still love you even if you hurt me" one.

I end the call, and toss the phone away from me. I sag against the kitchen counter, embittered and exhausted. I feel like I've run the New York City Marathon jumping on my left foot. I am depleted of all energy and liveliness, the day has turned to shit anyway.

I remain frozen there for a moment, still slumped against the counter, until the full impact of the horrible conversation with Jake finally hits me, and my knees give way. I'm huddled on the floor in a shapeless, sobbing heap of trembling bones.

Before I realise what's happening, before I can even protest, I'm forcibly lifted from the floor and Emmett is carrying me upstairs. He looks pissed beyond recognition.

"If you're reduced to this every time the Asshole calls, I'm having his number blocked for good. I mean it, BeeBee."

"Em…" I croak, unable to form any other coherent thought.

"Fucking hell, BeeBee, you shouldn't be talking to him anyway. What the fuck did he want this time?" Emmett is growling.

"Usual…" I am still monosyllabic, almost.

We're now upstairs and Emmett is dumping me in the humongous tub in his master bathroom.

No, I don't want to know why he'd need to install such a big bathtub. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes.

I look up at him from the bottom of the bathtub while I'm trying to get back on my feet. He is dangerously close to the detachable shower-head, and I need to run for cover, if I know my brother.

"Oh no, BeeBee, you don't!" He grins, his childish dimples in full view.

"Oh no, Emmie, you won't!" But my protests get literally drowned by Emmett's quick reaction.

He is spraying water all over me, brandishing the shower-head like a lightsaber, how very Jedi of him. I can't help giggling while I run around the bathroom, trying to escape from him. Quite predictably, I end up soaked and the bathroom turns into a disaster area. Emmett is still running after me, but slips on the wet tiles and falls victim to his own ploy. We both end up on the floor, drenched from head to toe and laughing like idiots.

After our fit of hysterical laughter subsides, Em gets back on his feet and extends a hand to help me up. I look at him square in the eye.

"Thank you, Emmie."

"No biggie." He shrugs.

"'Tis a big deal for me. Thank you, bro." I say, almost tearing up again, as I stand on my toes to caress his cheek. He smiles.

"You're a big deal for me too, little sis." He says, as he plants a delicate kiss on my forehead.

For such a burly man, you'd never peg him for being so affectionate, but he is, fortunately for me, because that's just what I need right now. He's like a huge cocoon of affection that wraps around me and protects me.

"Don't we have a party to go to, hot stuff?" He says again, repeating the question he asked before all hell broke loose.

"Like this? Angela would totally freak out."

Emmett furrows his brow pensively. He is actually thinking about it, the clown that he is. He sighs.

"It's kinda like work for you, BeeBee?"

I nod, with a mock serious expression.

"Damn. We need to change, then."

"We do, Emmie. I'll go get ready."

"Run along, sister. I wanna go and check out this actor of yours."

And he's gone, before I can even retort that there's no actor of mine in the picture.

A couple of hours later we are speeding along the Pacific Coast Highway in the Viper, leaving the lukewarm sand and the sunset of Venice Beach behind for Angela's party.

Emmett is his usual jovial self, chatting about this and that and updating me about Rosie's latest stunts, while I can't refrain from tapping my foot impatiently. I am nervous, so nervous that I'm twisting locks of hair around my fingers, biting at my cuticles and wringing my fingers, all at the same time. I guess even neurotics are allowed to multitask.

"BeeBee, just in case you're not aware, this area is prone to earthquake risk. If you keep this up, you're gonna mess with the seismographs at the UCLA. They might think the Big One's near. Give it a rest."

I get his point, this is only a party. A party hosted by a dear friend of mine, who has helped me find a new job in LA, and is also helping me, encouraging me and pulling every string in her book to boost my side project. My dream career.

Why shouldn't I be nervous? There's a lot at stake tonight. Nonetheless, Em is right. If I keep this up, I'll be a mumbling mess before I get to Angela's. I draw a deep breath that's meant to calm my nerves.

"What is it, BeeBee? Don't tell me that the actor guy's got you in his clutches already?"

I try to give Emmett by best and nastiest stink eye. All his former insightfulness has probably gone down the drain in the shower. I was right, that was just a fluke, and here I am, stuck with my precious, predictable brother, who thinks I'm climbing the walls because I'm going to see my new boss at Angela's party.

Delusional is not an adjective I ever thought I would apply to Emmett. I need to set the record straight before he carries this too far.

"Emmett, why would you think I'd be nervous to see Mr. Cullen?"

"Are you really gonna keep calling him by his last name all the time? Doesn't this sound too much like Jane Eyre, BeeBee?"

He's been rummaging through my DVDs. Again. I could call him out on it, but it would be pointless. I try to answer his question truthfully.

"I just don't know the guy, Emmett. I'm trying to keep some distance."

He raises an eyebrow.

"You're aware that last names actually fell out of fashion in this town a while ago, like around the 1950s?"

I may be a Londoner at heart, but I'm not dumb. And I also know that Emmett will probably be ten times more at ease than I will be at this party. He may well know an awful lot of people there, and not just because he's lived in LA for years now, but because of his job as a personal trainer.

There's a common thread that links Emmett, Angela and I together. When Emmett was on his way to become a professional football player, Angela was his agent, and that's how I met her in the first place. Once Emmett had to abandon professional football, he turned to Angela for advice, of course, and she convinced him to take up coaching. A couple of years later, one of Angela's clients needed to bulk up for a movie, and Ang turned to Emmett for advice. Since then, whenever Ang needs a personal trainer for one of her actors, Emmett is her first port of call.

This is why it's safe to say that, though I am the one formally convened by Angela to attend tonight's bash, Emmett is going to be entirely in his element, while I'm going to be a fish out of water. Edward Cullen's presence is the least of my problems tonight. Frankly, he wouldn't even make my long list. The lump in my throat, the sweaty palms and the restless leg can all be explained by the lofty list of people that Angela wants me to meet later tonight.

I need to send BeeBee to sleep and get Bella out of the closet. She needs to work on all pistons tonight. This is my best resolution, as I see a wide gate opening in front of us.

"We're at Angela's?" I ask, awed, as I take in my surroundings. I've never been at Angela's before. Since I moved to LA, I've been meeting her either at her office or in Venice Beach.

Emmett only nods, cutting the engine of the Viper. He's out of the car in a flash and appears beside me to open my door, like a true gentleman. He takes my hand and manages to whisper in my ear, chuckling. "They're looking at us like we're royalty, BeeBee. I'm gonna get a kick out of this, if you don't mind."

I'm too busy scanning the crowd for Angela to mind whatever Emmett is planning. I should be worried, but I can't find it within me to care. I am also trying to find Edward Cullen, just to err on the safe side. After all, he's my boss and I should be aware of his whereabouts.

Before I can spot Edward anywhere, Angela welcomes me and Emmett and immediately steals me away. Emmett can't resist teasing her. Her hostess persona is a tad different from the usual cut-throat manners she sports while she's working.

"No, Ang, I don't mind you stealing my sister away for the evening. It's so thoughtful to leave me roaming the premises, unsupervised."

Angela's stink eye is no more successful than mine. Emmett responds with a full belly laugh and disappears, a margarita in his hand.

Angela laces her arm with mine and guides me through the crowd, leading me to the back of the house. There's a huge, oddly shaped swimming pool illuminated by thousands of twinkle lights, wound in intricate patterns around the deck and trellises of greenery surrounding it.

It's a lovely, quiet spot compared to the rest of the house. Adirondack chairs and couches are scattered haphazardly around the pool and there are people here and there, chit-chatting and sipping drinks. Needless to say, there's not a single face that I can claim having seen before, and they all look a lot more glamorous than I do.

There's glamour and glamour. I'm more used to the quiet, polite and monochromatic glamour of the City, of Eton alumni clad in Burberry suits and of well-mannered ladies whose only job is to attend charity events and who can sport at least an ounce of nobility.

And there's this glamour, of people who apparently never speak to each other, but are well aware of who's hot and who's not, of parties where the wrong outfit equals social suicide and the agony aunt of choice is normally Perez Hilton.

I am suddenly afraid that I'll never fit in, when I suddenly realise that these two worlds probably boil down to a very simple, and very similar, common denominator. They're both driven by information, because it's all about who you know and what you know.

I have a knack for information, it's an easy thing when you have a photographic memory and your brain can't help linking bits and pieces together by association of ideas. It all becomes a gigantic spider web in your head, an incredible database that doesn't need backup.

My years with Jasper have taught me that the golden rule is "whatever you know, know it before anyone else, and keep it to yourself until you know what to do with it". In 'law-speak', this means that if the information is confidential, you keep it safe, you guard it with your life, because if you don't, the consequences can be dire indeed.

I mentally give myself a reassuring pat on the back. Maybe I can manage not to jinx this, after all. I can do this.

Angela hands me a flute of champagne, effectively ending my reverie.

"You did well this morning, B. I'm impressed."

Angela impressed? That's quite a compliment. I allow myself a smug grin.

"Hope my method didn't have the impact of a freight train, Mr. Cullen looked positively lost."

Angela chuckles and playfully smacks my elbow.

"Only in a good way, but why the whole Mr. Cullen and Miss Swan act? You know you'll have to drop that before long, don't you?"

"I…Ang…the fact is…"

"B, look, I can understand the distance thing, but Edward is a solemnly upright guy, if I ever saw one in this town. You have nothing to fear on that score."

Why does everyone misunderstand my motives? This is getting beyond ridiculous.

"It's not that, Ang. Well, you're dead on about the distance thing, but…"

Angela's eyebrows are raised to her hairline.

"You don't like him? Instant dislike, hence the cold shoulder?"

I hiss, frustrated and at a loss for words. Other than Rosalie, Angela is my oldest and dearest friend. If I can't explain this to her properly, either something is seriously wrong with me, or I'm busted, because it probably means that I am going about it the wrong way. They are right, and I am wrong.

"No, Ang. You're wrong. It's not that… I just don't… don't want to turn this into another Jasper situation…"

She freezes for a second, deposits her empty glass on the nearest table and looks at me, an earnest frown on her face.

"I may be wrong, but I don't understand you either, right now. He's not Jasper, you know that, right?"

I can only nod, and hope that she is right.

"Come along, smart girl. There's an editor and a literary agent that I want you to meet."

With that, our heart-to-heart is finished and we go mingle. Angela introduces me to a few interesting contacts. Nothing is set in stone, though. I still have to figure out a couple of things before my side project can be taken to the next level.

During this meet and greet, some twist of fate keeps both my brother and my boss away from Angela and me. It could be a mere coincidence, given the sheer size of Angela's mansion, or not. While I have nothing to say about my boss, since I have not the slightest inkling as to what he might be up to, I can attest that my brother's being quiet and inconspicuous at a party is not a good sign.

I leave Angela to her own devices and go on a manhunt for Emmett. After a while, my worries disappear at the sound of a boisterous laugh. Emmett found, crisis averted.

"Man, you should have seen her face! Fucking priceless!"

Emmett's back hides whoever he is talking to. I close the distance in a few strides to go check for myself.

"What was priceless, Em?" I ask, in my most believable impression of an unfazed, disinterested face. At the sound of my voice, Emmett turns abruptly, still smiling from his successful punch line, to reveal that he is talking to none other than my boss, Edward Cullen.

An awkward silence ensues. Mr. Cullen is looking at me as I link my arm with Emmett's, his eyes keen and narrowing. He looks mightily displeased, perhaps he did not want to be burdened with seeing his newly-appointed help here tonight, since the slavery begins next Monday.

Emmett looks down at me, with the same guilty eyes of a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. I was right, Emmett was probably telling Mr. Cullen something that he should not know. Now I'm going to torment my brother until he reveals his misdoings, and I'm sure as hell going to demand full disclosure.

We're still standing on the front terrace of Angela's house and, though it's a rather warm night for November, a sudden gust of wind sends chills down my spine. I shiver visibly, still linked to my brother's side.

"Are you cold, BeeBee?"

"I believe I left my wrap in the car." I reply, nodding at the same time.

"I'll go get it for you, BeeBee." Emmett ruffles my hair, kisses my forehead and goes. My puzzled gaze follows him for a few yards, trying to figure out why he is being so affectionate with me in public, which is unusual for him, notwithstanding my earlier meltdown.

Mr. Cullen's look of displeasure is now bordering on disgust. Better and better, because now we're alone and must talk to each other. I take the plunge, now is as good a moment as any.

"You should never take at face value anything that comes from Emmett's mouth, you know." I say, with affectionate indulgence. I know that Emmett's exuberance and penchant for the dramatic do not sit well with just anybody.

Mr. Cullen shrugs and digs his hands deeper in his jeans pockets and casts his eyes down. Well, if this isn't interesting. This guy, who should be used to living in the limelight by now, seems as shy and as uncomfortable as me in social situations. My earlier words come back to me. He may look young and lost, but if he's this genuine, then he's not a lost cause to me.

I realise that Angela is right, and that I was wrong. He is not Jasper, and I cannot jinx this because of my fears. If I get a clean slate to start from, so does he.

"And I'm sure he just told you something he'll probably regret." I continue, with a sly smile.

Slowly, cautiously, his face rises to meet my eyes.

"Why should he, Miss Swan?" He asks, in a tentative whisper.

Clean slate, a clean slate to start from. I need to fix this morning's mistake. Let's start with something easy. Let's start with introductions, again. When Mr Cullen met Miss Swan, take two.

"Bella, just…Bella."

His face lights up in a blinding smile.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

A special thanks (doubled) to Black Hale and Eifeltwr for giving me the best "biased" reviews an author can receive. Ladies, you know why I keep you around. For the rest, let's blame Cedric.

CluelessWard would also like to thank, from the bottom of his forgetful heart, his faithful and regular readers and reviewers, who've all been around from day one: Pleumeleuc, MinaRivera, Fembot80, Kimbocymru1, Mothermeow5, KitsuShel, MilesOfSmiles and EdwardsType. A special shout out goes to Gabby871, who left the 40th review. Gabby, remember you can cash in your bonus whenever you wish.

The 50th reviewer (we are close to the mark, people) will get the same sort of bonus I gave to Gabby: you want a special outtake, or alternate point of view? Review, guys, review. Only condition: if it's already covered in the next chapters, I'm afraid you'll have to wait and pick something else ;-)

And of course, thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

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**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 8**

_Edward_

As much as I'd like to tear him apart from limb to limb, I have to concede that Linebacker Em is actually a nice guy.

We can never be friends though, because he lives with Bella. He lives with my Bella in a gigantic beachfront house in Venice Beach. We've been talking for barely ten minutes and I've already learnt this much.

I am reaching my boiling point. If I was tempted to make a scene with AssKevin on the plane and I thought I couldn't get any lower than that, I was sorely wrong. There's a coil of bubbling rage brewing in my chest, and I can't help flexing and unflexing my fists until my knuckles are white with tension. My mouth is shut in a thin, tense line and my brow is furrowed in disgust, as if my stomach was prey to a rare and uncomfortable tropical disease.

I feel ridiculous but I am still honest enough to admit that the green monster is making a meal of my pitiable self. I am jealous, and my rage and jealousy reach an unprecedented peak when Bella herself happens upon us, just as Emmett is regaling me with a tale of the latest prank he pulled on her. How could he think that spraying her with the shower-head would be fun for her? She could have caught a cold.

_Just because _you_ want to show her fun times, Cullen…_

Emmett turns to acknowledge her presence and I stare at her, transfixed. She is beaming, as if she knows she's catching Emmett red-handed. Emmett, on the contrary, doesn't look too pleased. I am positively mad, because she's instantly glued to Emmett's side. I want to pry him away from her and hurl him down a ravine. Possibly, a very steep one.

They speak. My mind can't process any of the words they're saying, because I all can think of is how easy and relaxed their interactions are. How utterly beautiful Bella is looking, sheathed in that emerald green, shimmery top.

Suddenly, Bella shivers. She's cold. There, he did it. He sprayed her with cold water and now she'll be sick. I really have to hurt him now. He made Bella sick with his childish pranks.

_You're just mad with jealousy, Cullen. Imagine Bella drenched in water, in a tub._

She murmurs something to his shoulder and he replies.

"I'll go get it for you, BeeBee."

Why does he feel the need to kiss her forehead before he goes? Why can't he disappear and never come back? I am furious, and I bet it shows on my face. I have no control over my emotions where Bella is concerned. Before I actually try to punch him, Emmett is gone.

We are finally alone, and what do I do? I bet I do look lame, with my pissed-off grimace in place. She must think I'm not happy to see her. She must think I'm an asshole, she must think her boss is mentally unstable.

_You're only afraid she won't work for you anymore, Cullen._

While I attempt to regain my composure, she surprises the hell out of me and speaks.

"You should never take at face value anything that comes from Emmett's mouth, you know."

There's an unmistakable smile in her voice, and her tone is indulgent and loving. I wish she was speaking of me with such tenderness. I wish Emmett would disappear.

_That wouldn't guarantee she'd want you instead, Cullen._

I can't bring myself to answer. I have no coherent words left in my brain and, after her behaviour to me this morning, I have no clue as to what I should do or say around her. I wish a prompter would appear from behind a bush and whisper some well-written lines to save my sorry ass from this.

I can't bring myself to look at her, either. I looked at her this morning and all I could do was vomit profanities at her, which did not make for a great first meeting. Now I choose to remain silent, and while I might come across as not incredibly sociable or polite, my silence will surely be safer. Let her take the lead, I'll do whatever she wishes me to do.

Then, for the second time in a handful of minutes, she surprises me again. She keeps talking, with a knowing look on her face, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and a cunning smile on her luscious lips. This woman poses a serious threat to my self-control.

"And I'm sure he just told you something he'll probably regret."

_Though you'll hardly regret the visuals, Cullen._

Linebacker Em just spent fifteen minutes gushing about how happy he is that she is living with him. He just spent fifteen goddamn minutes telling me, her boss, a perfect stranger and her own personal stalker, how he pulled a frat boy prank on her and turned his master bathroom into a mock-up of the Everglades. He described in full detail how funny she looked, slumped on the wet tiles and soaked like an ugly duckling. Asshole. As if there could ever exist a parallel universe where my Business Class Girl would remotely look like an ugly duckling.

She seems to know exactly what he was talking about, even if there's no way she could have heard. She was nowhere to be seen, until she magically reappeared a few minutes ago. Angela kidnapped her as soon as they got out of the car, I know because I looked for her in the crannies and nooks of Angela's humble abode all evening. I had to give up when Linebacker Em cornered me, a beer in his hand.

I get the distinct impression that Emmett will live to regret what he told me, because however little I may know about Miss Swan, I am pretty sure that she would not be pleased to discover what sort of tales Emmett has been passing on to me. She has made it clear that she wants to keep a safe, professional distance from me. Visuals of my assistant drenched in water after a shower prank clearly do not fall into the category of correct, professional interactions.

While I debate all this in my head, I realise that I need to muster up some courage and say something, otherwise she will be forced to think that I may be mentally challenged. I try to be formal, and hope this is what is expected of me.

"Why should he, Miss Swan?" My voice is tentative, barely audible.

I force myself to meet her gaze, because it's the polite thing to do, and because I can't humanly go any longer without admiring her. What I see renders me speechless. I know that Alice would probably beat the shit out of me for saying this, but she is beautiful. As in, angelically, otherworldly beautiful. There's a warm light all around her, from the twinkle lights and candles scattered all over the balcony and their halo surrounds her, bringing out the mahogany streaks in her brown hair, and the golden specks in her chocolate eyes.

There is nothing plain and simple about this girl. I may know little about her, but everything I've witnessed so far shows that she's a careful, well-balanced creation, in layers and nuances. She may not be striking, but she is captivating. The casual observer could never catch her allure, because it can only be appreciated with patient observation.

I've been blessed with this realisation only because I met her three times without being able to talk to her, which compelled me to expand an uncommon effort in paying attention to every little detail about her. Now that I am so finely attuned to her, I can notice every little shift in her demeanour, every imperceptible line on her face.

That's why, though I am completely lost in contemplation of her, I can sense a shift in her expression. Her brows are no longer scrunched up, her features are no longer tense and her eyes are smiling. This is the most relaxed I've seen her since this morning.

Then, for the third time tonight, she surprises me.

"Bella…just Bella."

I blink once, then twice. I almost ask her to say that again, then somehow manage to stop myself. Instead, I replay those six words in my head, revelling in the sound of her voice as she smiles tentatively at me.

She's giving me a chance!

She's making an effort to close part of the distance between us, a distance she imposed herself. I am more than fine with this. In fact, I am ecstatic, but I need to keep my reactions in check, if I don't want her to think that her boss is unstable, after all. Screaming that you're happy your assistant is finally on first-name terms with you from the top of the Hollywood sign could be labelled as a token of certifiable insanity, even in this town.

_That, and dragging her away to your cave, Cullen. You know you want to._

Somehow, my dazzled brain formulates a polite, appropriate answer.

"Only if you call me Edward, Bella."

It's liberating to be finally allowed to say her name aloud, and a foreign, tingling feeling electrocutes me down to my toes. My brain has done its job for the night and is now irrevocably flatlining.

She casts her eyes down again, and then nods, with a shy smile. This girl is a far cry from the bad-ass rider I saw this morning.

Since I have no functional brain cells left, I can't decide who's hotter though, and I don't trust my traitor dick to do that for me, because _he_ would never make an informed decision.

_He'd pick both, Cullen. And you know it._

"Can I ask you something, though, Edward?"

My breath is suddenly shallower and that's only because she just spoke my name.

"Anything you want, Bella."

She doesn't know how true my last statement is, and she might never know.

"Can we stick to Mr. Cullen in public, please?"

I frown a little. This is a strange request, and I feel like I'm making one step forward and two leaps back. She picks up on my puzzled grimace and elaborates.

"It's just…It's just the way I'm used to…"

She doesn't finish her sentence and I'm about to protest that 'Jasper' got promoted to 'Jazz' status somewhere along the way, but a lone, overworked brain cell stops my mouth before I blow my cover. I am not supposed to know who Jasper is. In fact, I am not even supposed to know that he exists. Then, a light bulb flashes in my head. I always overheard their one-to-one conversations. I have no idea how they referred to each other in public.

"Where I come from…it's a spot more formal than all of this…"

She continues, waving a graceful hand to indicate Angela's lavish party and glamorous guests. This makes her uncomfortable, maybe we do have something in common, after all.

Just like that, though, our moment is over, because Linebacker Em is back and is wrapping a golden scarf around her shoulders. She looks at him from the corner of her eye.

"Thank you. Em, I take it you've met my boss here, right?"

Emmett shots a wicked smile at me. I notice that he has dimples, and I immediately think that those cute dimples must have gotten him out of trouble more than once. And why do I get the sudden feeling that something is afoot between the two of them?

"Why, yes. I was talking to Edward here before you so rudely interrupted us."

Bella's scolding glance is icy, as in Antarctica-is-closer-than-you-think icy. Gone is the shy girl, enter the bad-ass rider. She does look scary.

_And hot as hell, Cullen, hot as hell. Lucky she's not scolding you, though._

She turns to me, leaving Emmett to his own devices.

"So, Edward, you've met Emmett Swan, my obnoxious, immature, deranged older _brother_?"

Her emphasis on the word 'brother' is ominous. My brain restarts abruptly.

_Older brother? As in, they're blood relatives, Cullen?_

I am astounded. I'm sure I'm gaping like a fish but I can't bring myself to care. I shake my head, as if this movement could actually clear the fog in my brain.

_What the fuck? They're brother and sister?_

"Emmett…is…your…brother?" I actually enunciate, one excruciating word at a time, trying to rein in the word vomit and the string of profanities that threaten to leave my mouth.

My gaze frantically alternates between Bella and Emmett, who is now looking…sheepish?

Guilty?

Mortally afraid?

All of the above?

Bella closes her eyes for a fraction of a second and heaves a deep breath. She points a finger at me, indicating that I should bear with her for a second, and then turns to Emmett with the enraged features of a mythical fury.

_Something wicked this way comes…_

"BeeBee…" Emmett pleads, while a sound dangerously close to a growl comes from Bella's mouth.

"Emmett Swan, is there anything at all you would like to say in your defence now, before I rip your throat out?"

"BeeBee, you know…"

I feel like I'm attending the grand final at Wimbledon, with Bella and Emmett as players, and Bella throwing curve balls at a defenceless Emmett. Suddenly, Bella turns to me again.

"He didn't tell you that he is my brother?" Bella's tone teeters between furious and astounded.

I can only shake my head in denial, though Emmett is looking at me with the pleading eyes of a lost puppet. She turns to her brother again, seething with rage.

"Emmett, before I go mad, cut your nuts off, have them coated in sterling silver and then Fed-Ex'd to Rosalie as paperweights, you'd better come clean with whatever you've done. Like now."

Emmett's eyes are cast down, and I am all the more in awe of Bella, who can make a giant of a man like Emmett feel like he stole alms from a church.

"BeeBee, I might have neglected to mention that you're my sister…"

"I daresay, from Edward's face, that you did more than that, but we'll discuss this at home. Get out of my sight right now, I need to calm the hell down before I talk to you again."

"BeeBee…I…" He touches her elbow, but she recoils immediately.

"Emmett, you can grovel later in private. Now get lost, for fuck's sake."

I've never heard Bella actually curse in public until now and, though it's kind of hot, it's still a tangible evidence of how upset she must be. Emmett is gone in a flash, and Bella exhales again.

"What else did he tell you, Edward?" She is speaking with her eyes still closed, and her voice has an apologetic tone I've never heard before.

I debate for a second whether I should be truthful, and rat Emmett out, or be charitable, and feed Bella some kind of white lie.

I choose truthful – Emmett won't be the one managing my days and nights, after all. Bella is the One Who Should Not Be Pissed Off.

"He told me that you two live together in Venice Beach…and…"

"Let me guess, he made it sound as if we live together, _together_?"

Bella definitely knows her brother inside out and damn if she's not right. On second thought, Emmett never expressly said that he and Bella were together, just that they lived together, and it's true that he neglected to specify that they are siblings. So yes, it's a sin of omission, but sure as hell it's not accidental. Uncle Russell would say that this behaviour reeks of _mens rea_. His golden boy Jasper would probably agree, and Bella in tow.

Bella's reaction, though, tells me that, much like the shower-head prank, this behaviour is part of Emmett's usual antics.

I nod, before she has a conniption and considers me a wilful participant instead of an unwitting victim. She covers her face with her hands.

"I'm so, so sorry…I told you, you shouldn't take at face value _anything_ he says…"

This is all quite hilarious. It all boils down to my assistant's brother who spots me at a party, chats me up, butters me up with a beer, and just feeds me with a series of tales that, while technically true, are carefully worded to sound misleading.

I can't help laughing out loud. I've been thrown into the dark green hell of jealousy for nothing. All of Emmett's gestures, while overtly affectionate, did not indicate the closeness or complicity of lovers. They were just that, affectionate gestures between siblings.

_Cullen, when in hell have you ever been that affectionate to Alice in public? Here's your answer…_

"Do you think he…?" I blurt out, not quite sure myself what I'm trying to say.

"He was trying to pull yet another prank on me, and he was definitely pulling your leg as well. You'd better get used to it, I've known him for 27 years and counting…"

We look at each other for a split second, and Bella's expression is priceless. She looks half-defeated, and half-diverted. I think back on Emmett's dexterity at pulling such a stunt on both of us, and try to figure out how I can manage not give away how much Emmett's prank actually disturbed me, and why.

Without warning, Bella and I burst out laughing when Angela joins us, shooting a quizzical look at both of us.

"I should say you both took it in stride, eh?"

Angela obviously knows about the EmPrank©. The bloke works fast, I have to hand it to him.

Bella's trying to stop her fit of quasi-hysterical laughter and to answer Angela's comment at the same time.

"Oh, Ang. He really went out of his way to try and embarrass both of us. And he'll pay for it. Slowly, and painfully." She finally says, with a wicked glint in her eyes. I'd love to see her inflict some payback time on Linebacker Em.

"Why should he pay for it if you were both laughing your asses off right now?"

Bella turns abruptly serious. "Because he knew full well that he'd be taking the mickey out of both Edward and me. Now tell me if that's responsible, adult behaviour for a professional, 34-year-old man?"

Angela waves a dismissive hand at Bella. "You know perfectly well that he's hopeless on that score. It's a win-win situation for him. He had fun, and so did you. He got you laughing, at the end of the day, and with the afternoon you've just had, you deserve it, right?"

Bella's smiling face clouds over as she nods at Angela. Something must have happened this afternoon, though there's a slim chance that I might get to know what exactly.

Angela throws a pointed look at Bella, taking in her appearance from head to toe.

"B, where are the Louboutins I gave you for your birthday?"

Angela lavishes posh gifts on my Bella, that's the extent of how well they know each other. In my limited run-ins with the world of fashionable ladies such as Angela and Alice, I've learnt this much. Shoes don't just walk your feet around, shoes are a whole world unto themselves, they are a mission statement. This is a truth that Alice has been hammering into my fashionless brain for years now. I finally get it with the magical word 'Louboutins'. You could get a fairly average guitar for the price of a pair of those shoes, and this is Angela's latest birthday gift to my Bella. A gift that Bella is not wearing, much to Angela's distress.

Bella retorts, in true Beatrix Kiddo fashion. "Those traps? I'm afraid of heights, Angela."

Afraid of heights? When is the last time I heard a girl make fun of stiletto heels?

_She's a rare one, Cullen. Hold on tight, Monday's gonna be interesting._


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I am an avid reader of Fanfic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. Be ruthlessly gentle (and honest).

Thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

CluelessWard would also like to thank, from the bottom of his forgetful heart, his faithful and regular readers and reviewers...you know who you are (he doesn't, and he's texting B. to have an updated list...)

And of course, thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things. Celebrity Skin belongs to Hole.

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BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 9**

_Edward_

I spend most of Saturday and Sunday vegetating in my flat. I don't call Alice, I don't leave the house. Not that I'd have somewhere to go or someone to see. Hell, the only person I want to see is in Venice Beach with her brother, most likely enjoying her last quiet week end for some time. Even if I dared drag my ass out there, I'd be followed by a pageant of paps by the time I got out of the house. They'd sniff my tracks as far as Venice Beach, discover Bella's existence, and she would be all over the internet before I could even blink.

I won't have that, not now. Not when I've finally met her and I am slowly bringing down the wall between us, brick by boring brick. It is inevitable that she will be dragged into the press and media extravaganza at some point, but I mean to protect her from the gossip rags as long as possible. Angela will see to that.

When I have finally got past the 'Miss Swan' stage, courtesy of some cosmic event I cannot yet identify, the last thing I want is to see grainy pics of her all over Popsugar and Perez Hilton, labelled as my latest mystery fling.

_You wish, Cullen, you wish._

This is why, come Sunday afternoon, I find myself still indoors, wandering around my flat in a post non-coital bliss that I haven't been able to shake off since Friday night.

I am on a daydreaming loop, Bella's voice replaying in my head as she finally bans the 'Call Me Miss Swan' rule, and the sound of her heartfelt, musical laugh resonating in my ears. It isn't a girlish, polite giggle, it's a full, contagious laugh, where all her features light up and she actually has to dab a few tears from her eyes. With a brother like Linebacker Em, I guess there's little room for restrained emotions in their household.

Her brother, her own older brother, her humongous fucking brother. Thank God – while he surely got a kick out of it, I can now afford to feel relief. I fell into his trap, and I still feel pretty stupid for it, and also for the quasi panic attack plus jealousy-induced hissy fit that I nearly got into. I feel like a clueless teenager.

_Scratch the teenager, Cullen. You are clueless, period._

I am relieved now, though, more relieved than ever. Bella doesn't live in this frenetic, almost impersonal city all alone, she lives with someone who evidently cares about her a lot, regardless of family ties.

I am relieved also because she is still single, to the best of my knowledge.

_She's still your assistant, Cullen._

Just because I have nothing better to do (or rather, because nothing else sounds so appealing to me right now), I think back on all the little things Emmett told me about Bella, of all the little things I know myself.

Their beachfront house in Venice Beach has an outrageously huge gym, because Linebacker Em, being a personal trainer, works mostly from home.

Check.

There's also an outrageously big kitchen because Bella loves to cook.

Check.

That is, when Emmett does not insist and drags Bella to the beach for a run. Not that she manages to keep up with him.

Check.

_Bella in her workout clothes, all sweaty. How about you give her a workout, Cullen?_

_Check._

Bella's parents are divorced and live at the ends of the earth, this is why Emmett and Bella are so close.

Check.

Bella has invaded Emmett's house with all her knick-knacks, included her endless collection of mugs. I can't help smiling, thinking that now she can have some proper tea-time, with a mug for each day of the week.

Check.

Bella's former boss, '_Jazz_', is also her closest friend and they've known each other for years.

Check.

I am a genius – I knew Uncle Russell had been talking about her. I remember his most glowing praises and my chest swells with pride. She must be amazing, and now she works for me.

_Ew, Cullen. That sounded like Charlie's Angels._

The only thing that Emmett was quite secretive about is the actual reason why Bella has left her best friend and flashy job in London to move to sunny California and her obnoxious brother. I am more than determined to figure this out for myself, now that my lonely days as a stalker are over.

Sunday afternoon is slowly waning into Sunday evening, and while I'm debating whether I should leave my crypt for dinner, or just stick to ordering in, the buzzer and my phone ring at the same time.

The opening bars of '_Celebrity Skin_' alert me that it's Angela calling. I glue the phone to my ear as I'm trying to open the door.

"Ang, what's up?"

"Nothing, wonder boy. Just open the damn door, I've been instructed to tell you that you have a special delivery coming," she says, in her usual deadpan, business-like tone.

In true Angela fashion, the line goes dead without any further niceties and, sure enough, there's a delivery guy staring at me from the open door.

"Delivery for Mr. Edward Cullen?"

I nod, sign the delivery slip and fish out a note from my back pocket. The guy dutifully thanks me and disappears. I close the door, still silent, and plop down on my coach, clutching the parcel in my hands.

I am at a loss. It's neither a time bomb, nor a prank, otherwise Angela wouldn't green light its delivery at my very private, and very secret, home address. It's not fan mail, because I usually go through selected stacks of this whenever I swing by Angela's office.

I move heaps of junk from the coffee table (my cleaning spree was sorely short-lived) and retrieve a pair of scissors. The open box reveals a shiny new blackberry with a note on the side.

I cautiously extract the hi-tech, hi-end device from the box and turn it over in my hands. Not something I'd choose for myself. I'm not a complete technophobe, but if I can, I stick to the '_less is more'_ principle with these things.

The blackberry is fully charged and switched on. A small icon is flashing on the screen, indicating that I have a new message. Already?

My eyes dart to the yellow note. It's a single sheet of lined paper, clearly torn from a legal notepad. Without even looking at the signature, I immediately know it's from her. The note is short and to the point.

_Edward, _

_This should give us __a head-start for tomorrow morning. Most of what you'll need is in your new blackberry. The rest, we'll go over together._

_Go read your new messages._

_Bella_

Still calling me Edward, and still signing herself as Bella. It's a good start.

I fiddle with the touch screen for a bit but then get myself situated pretty quickly. There is one new text and one new email. Both are from Bella. The text says that her new blackberry number is on speed dial #4.

_Why only #4? She should be #1, Cullen!_

Either she underestimates herself or she's seriously messing with the cosmic order of things. As I scroll down the text, things begin to make sense.

#1 can't be customised, because it's the preset voicemail speed dial.

#2 is Alice. I wonder how she managed to guess that I'd need my sister's number on speed dial. Then I tell myself that she probably talked to Angela or Jessica.

#3 is Angela. Bella's placed herself beneath Angela and Alice. I guess alphabetical order might have something to do with. That's what I would contrive to do if I had some sense of organisation.

But because I don't, and because I can't bear to have her on the lowly #4 spot, I fiddle some more with the phone's menu and manage to change my speed dial presets. The natural order of things is restored as follows.

#1 Useless, annoying, Bella's-natural-place-hogging voicemail.

#2 Bella, aka Business Class Girl.

#3 Alice. She will understand and forgive (maybe).

#4 Angela. If Bella takes care of things, I don't see why Angela should be first port of call. Let Bella deal with Angela's ranting.

_Call her, Cullen. You know you want to._

Should I test drive my speed dials? I resist the temptation of calling Bella. I still have an email to read.

Bella's email is from a new account at Angela's firm. I knew there'd be a catch somewhere and that there was no way in hell she'd give me her personal email address. She did mention '_Fort Knox is being raided_' as the appropriate disaster level that justifies use of personal contacts. Before I even read the rest of the email, I pause to consider that both our new blackberries have very similar numbers, and that these as well must be new contracts, opened by Angela's firm, so that neither my name nor Bella's show up on the paperwork. Bummer.

Bella's email is a detailed, fool-proof debrief for all the things I'm scheduled to do tomorrow. Even I can waddle my way through it without incident but, with a satisfied smirk, I think that I won't have to, because of Bella.

I have a manic Monday ahead of me, with a long and boring photo shoot and more press junkets, but Bella will be by my side, every step of the way, especially because Angela has given her strict instructions to follow my sorry ass all day, to get into the thick of things from day one. Without a care in the world, because I'll be babysat by Business Class Girl, I pass out on the couch, still clutching my shiny new cell.

I wake up bright and early on Monday to the beeping sound of the 'crackberry'. Bella must have even set an alarm so that I'm not late. Why do I get the impression that perhaps, just perhaps, Angela has relayed to Bella more than I'd care to admit as to my little quirks, habits and general cluelessness?

_You like the fact that someone knows you, Cullen, don't you?_

I go through my morning routine of coffee, shower, towel-dry hair and clean clothes with plenty of time to spare before Ben and Eric show up to drive me to Angela's office.

Throughout the drive to Angela's office, I nurse my nervousness and anticipation until the elevator door dings open, signalling arrival at our destination.

I am met with a formidable vision. The two women who rule my professional life are lined up in the foyer to wait for me, one with a disbelieving look on her face, the other with a knowing smirk.

Angela looks flabbergasted, for the first time since I've known her, and possibly for the first time in her life, whilst Bella's smug smile rivals that of the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

Angela shakes her head and manages to greet me. "Well, good morning Edward. This is a nice new habit. Keep it up, wonder boy."

"Thanks Angela, to what do I owe the honour?" My quite puzzled reply follows Angela's likewise surprised greeting.

"You showed up on time and then some." That's Bella's musical voice welcoming me, flashing her brilliant eyes at me with a discreet wink. I feel myself smiling widely. Not too bad, for a first day. It looks like Bella and I are going to make a great team.

_Wouldn't you like that, Cullen? Both on and off stage?_

"B, you're sure you're not mad at me for leaving you totally stranded today? I really can't get out of that godforsaken meeting. It's too important." Angela's tone sounds like she's pleading. Angela pleading? To Bella? That's news indeed.

Bella turns to her, a clipboard and her own blackberry in her right hand, and answers without a hitch. "No problem at all, Ang. Most of the day will be taken up by the photo shoot. If I find myself in a rough patch with the press junket, I'll text you. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful, B. I have a feeling you've got this one covered. We'll meet here tonight for a quick debrief?"

"Sure thing. Mr. Cullen, are you ready? We need to go now if we don't want to be late."

I can merely nod and follow in Bella's footsteps. Once again, I am being herded, I am totally unnecessary to the conversation, and I don't mind it one bit.

The drive to the photo shoot is awkward to say the least. Bella sits across from me in the limo, as far away as possible from me. She might even be in another car. She's huddled in a corner, scribbling away in a thick planner, the clipboard and 'crackberry' faithfully by her side.

"I trust Emmett's punishment wasn't too harsh." She doesn't bat an eyelid, she is so focussed on her work that she doesn't even look my way. I clear my throat and this finally gets her attention.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that, Edward." My name on her lips and her bashful smile, and my brain turns to mush.

"I said I hope you weren't too harsh with Emmett." I say, teasingly.

"I merely removed all the TV cables. No operating flat screen, Playstation, Xbox, Wii whatsoever all over the house, till I decide he's done his time. He's devastated, of course, and apologises for misleading you." Her matter-of-fact tone reveals that it's probably not even the first time she's had to do something like this to Emmett.

"Seriously? I hope I never get on the wrong side of you, then."

She wordlessly returns her gaze to the wad of papers on the clipboard. I try to steal her attention again.

"So, Bella, Angela tells me you've worked in London for years…" I try to strike up some conversation, my voice still tentative, as my words trail off.

"That I did." Ouch. Almost monosyllabic. Did I piss her off somehow?

"Why the sudden move? Were you fed up with the rain and fog?" This catches her attention. The clipboard falls to the floor in a flourish of discarded papers. As quickly as she lost it, though, she collects herself and turns to face me with a blank, but stern look.

"That's a personal issue that I'd rather not address, Edward." She retorts, quite tense.

"Sorry, I just…"

"I want to make this clear now, Edward, to spare us any future misunderstandings. I do not wish to share the details of my personal life with you. I'd be grateful if you could respect my wish." She is utterly polite, but her voice is stone-cold and distant.

It's my turn to look bashful. Worse, I feel like a scumbag for pushing her limits and not knowing my boundaries.

"Please accept my apologies, Bella. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

My humble reply seems to test Bella's resolve to be dry and detached.

"I know you meant well. I just…I just can't do this, Edward. Please."

_Another leap back. Great job, Cullen._

To avoid further mishaps, I remain silent for the rest of the drive. Once we arrive on location, though, the ball starts rolling. Bella meets and greets with the photographer and the fashion editor on assignment and tells them, in no uncertain terms, that we can't be here all day and that they'd better get on with it.

_Damn, Cullen, she's bossy._

After briefing the crew about my requirements in terms of lunch and timing, Bella turns to me and says. "I'll be there in the back, Mr. Cullen, if you need me."

I'm about to protest about the Mr. Cullen thing, but then I remember we're in public. Before I can say anything, she's gone and I'm left to be manhandled by the fashion editor and the hairstylist. I'd like to talk to Bella and joke with her about how pointless it is to have a hairstylist with a rebel mop like mine, but I can't, because instead she's in a back corner of the huge photo studio and, from the mirror in front of me, I can see that she's busy typing away in a Mac Book, her faithful clipboard still by her side.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in front of this mirror, while the stylist messes with my hair and my skin to get it ready for the shoot. All the while, Bella's gaze does not wander away from her screen, unless it's to check the stack of papers on the clipboard, where she occasionally takes notes and ticks away unidentified items.

Once I'm through with styling, the fashion editor unceremoniously ushers me to a dressing room, and dumps a heap of clothes in my hands, muttering that it's for the first round of pictures.

"Five minutes, Mr. Cullen."

I get ready, without even looking at the clothes and, once I'm out to be manhandled by the crew yet again, I realise that my attire consists of a pair of grey, low-rise sweatpants, a black v-neck shirt and a grey tweed waistcoat.

Great!

Bella's going to see me in something that looks less appealing than my PJ's, while someone orders me to look '_hot, sexy and smouldering_' in various athletic poses on a wooden floor. Is she going to think I'm man meat and that this is all there is to me? Is she going to think she's wasting her time on someone who could belong in a boy band? Is she going to think I'm hot? Is she even going to look at me?

A couple of hours and two more skimpy outfits later, the photo shoot is drawing to a close. And yes, I'm aware that _skimpy _isa radical definition, but I'm not used to be seen in my PJ bottoms and a wet t-shirt by just anybody, and the thought that my fans are going to see me like this is unsettling. The fact that Bella has just seen one of the crew guys throw a bucket of water at me is just plain disturbing.

While the crew are taking my wet t-shirt competition pics, I'm distracted by the sound of Bella's voice as she talks animatedly on her blackberry. Her face goes through a dozen different expressions, from quizzical, to stunned, to smiling, to downright diverted, as she nods and talks without pause to whoever interrupted her morning of busy work, until she stops talking altogether and her face colours with the cutest blush I've ever seen on her face or anyone else's. My inner caveman rears his unkempt, primitive head.

_Who's the asshole at the other end, Cullen?_

Before I bolt the photo shoot, though, she recovers her composure and says something that ends the phone call altogether. Luckily, the shoot is also over and done with, and she is beside me in a flash.

"Here, Mr. Cullen, I thought you might need this." She says, as she hands me a plush towel. I am still dripping wet and her thoughtfulness almost reduces me to thankful tears.

"Thank you, Miss Swan, you're a lifesaver."

"No worries, Mr. Cullen, just trying to make your life easier," she retorts, with a smile.

"I see you had a busy morning while I was being beautified." I try to make conversation, hoping I do not put my foot in my mouth again.

"A very busy one. I nearly got a headache trying to make sense of your taxes and accounts. And I've looked at a few housing options that you should definitely check out."

"Whatever you pick will be fine, Miss Swan, and I'm sorry the tax thing is such a mess."

Bella flashes me a sly, knowing smile.

"Don't you try the '_deal with it_' card with me, Edward. I've been down that road before, and I can tell you that these tricks are lost on me."

We are now alone in the limo once again, and that's why she can drop the titles and be so snarky with me at the same time.

_You love it when she's bossy, Cullen._

All I can say in my defence is a very eloquent "Uh?"

"What I mean, Edward, is that I will do anything in my power to make your life easier, because that's my job, but I won't make choices for you. I will help you make an informed decision, but I won't make them for you." She sounds no longer bossy, but serious enough to make me take notice.

It takes me a minute to process this loaded statement and, when I've digested it, I realise it's one of the most respectful and mature things that's been said to me in a while. Whilst most of my 'handlers' assume to know what I want, and what I should do (sometimes wrongly), Bella is allowing, nay, forcing me to exert my free will, all the while saying that she will be there for me. If every decision is going to be like this, with Bella at my side, advising but not manipulating me, I suddenly feel that there's nothing I can't do. I smile at her, stupidly happy that she's in my life.

"I see your point, Bella. Thank you for helping me. We'll go through everything you think I should see. I'd very much like it if you came along for house visits, though." I hope my reply, can honestly convey my gratitude.

"Of course I'll come along, Edward. And if you don't mind, I'll run your tax issues past someone at White, Devlin & Hale. I don't want you to run the risk of double taxation."

"Bella, that sounds like ancient Arabic to me. Can you make a one-line version for the tax dummy?"

She smiles benignly as she sorts a pile of papers.

"You're a UK citizen but you make the bulk of your income in the US. We don't want to make undue gifts to both the HM Customs and the IRS, do we?"

"Oh, no, we don't... Absolutely not!"

For once, someone is explaining to me the financial implications of my being a stardom alien and I'm not feeling like a hopeless ignorant.

_And she said 'we', Cullen. Don't you like that?_

"That's what I thought. I'm not a tax expert but I know someone who will point us in the right direction, I just need to swing by White Devlin & Hale to get that sorted out."

"In London?"

I can't help asking, because I'm afraid that she'll have to leave me to deal with my taxes. Screw that. I'll keep the double taxation. She remains still for a moment but then continues.

"No, my contact is in London, though. I've dropped him an email and he should get back to me in about...five minutes, tops."

"And then?"

I feel like a child who can't help asking dumb questions like 'why' and 'how'.

"And then I'll have the name of someone at White Devlin & Hale in LA that we can harass with your tax issues on a permanent basis," she patiently replies.

"Aren't they gonna cost me an arm and a leg, your tax guys?"

I want to joke around a bit, play the part of the boss. She takes the hint and winks genially at me.

"Actually, no. I'm well acquainted, we'll get the employee discount. There is surely someone I know at their LA office. Oh, Edward, before I forget, your sister called me." She adds, almost offhand.

I'll bet my sorry ass she sensed that I was going to grill her about White Devlin & Hale in London, and she sidetracked me with Alice's call.

Wait! Alice called Bella? How? What? What is Short Stuff up to?

"Alice called you? Whatever for?" I blurt out, slightly shocked.

I'm well aware that I sound like a character off one of Dickens's novels, but I can't help it. My brain cells have been paralysed by fear. Has my meddlesome sister ratted me out, already?

"She couldn't get a hold of you on your phone, so she called Jessica, who told her about me and gave her my number. Alice figured I would know your whereabouts and called me. It was an interesting phone call."

Bella's smiling, but this doesn't put my mind at rest.

"Bella, please. I'm panicking here. What the heck do you mean by '_interesting'_?"

"Relax, Boss. She did not reveal any embarrassing family secrets, if that's what you're afraid of."

I can breathe free air again. My sister still has some faint notions of sibling loyalty. What I don't get, is how on earth Bella spent half an hour talking to a complete stranger, aka Alice Cullen?

"Though I must say there's no stopping her once she's on a roll, right? She's a handful, but I like her."

Bella likes Alice. Good and bad news at the same time. I turn a whiter shade of pale.

"Now I'm afraid of my sister and my assistant ganging up on me."

"I guess you'll have to run the risk. So far, I'm the one who faced the Spanish Inquisition while you were being '_beautified_'".

Oh no. This can't be good. Alice didn't rat me out because she grilled Bella instead.

"I'm going to need a criminal lawyer, Bella. Know any reliable ones?"

"I might. And why would you need one of those, Edward?"

"Because I'm going to kill my sister. I'm pretty sure murder is still a crime in England…"

Bella chuckles, as the limo suddenly stops. "No need to kill Alice. She just wanted to check what your Christmas plans were. I told her we'd check your schedule and work out a flight that would match with hers. Fine with you, Boss?"

"Y…Yes." I stutter, still thinking about the embarrassing third degree that Alice must have unleashed on Bella. My brain filter is clearly off duty, because my next question is: "Can I take you out to lunch? To celebrate?"

Bella smiles but shakes her head. "No can do, Edward. I'm actually busy for lunch. I'll meet you in an hour at the Westin for the press junket."

"Where are you going? What did Alice ask you?" I'm on a roll too. I'm Alice's brother, after all.

"To White, Devlin & Hale about your taxes."

"What did Alice ask you, Bella?" I'm afraid my voice sounds angrier than I intended. Bella is unfazed, though, as she gets out of the car and calls over her shoulder.

"She asked whether you're driving me crazy yet…"

_BCG's POV_

"_She asked whether you're driving me crazy yet…"_ I reply with a flourish before I leave a stunned and angry Edward in the car. As I make my way through the squeaky clean lobby of White, Devlin & Hale's LA headquarters, I think that LA Bella has done fairly well on her first morning at work, except one lapse into BeeBee mode, courtesy of Alice Cullen.

I really like Alice and I can tell we'll be in touch a lot from now on. She's been adamant that sometimes it's hard to get a hold of her erratic older brother. She is also hell-bent on knowing me better, which sounds strange to me. Who would want to be better acquainted with their brother's assistant? She's either extremely nosy or she's hiding something.

I'll give her the benefit of doubt, but I can't help sensing a hidden meaning in her questions. Why should Edward be driving me crazy? I'm used to dealing with crazy shit at work, and I can tell that Edward doesn't fit the bill.

Clueless, unaware, disorganised, yes. But crazy? That would be a big, fat no. He's curious about me, though, and he keeps asking me about London. I dodge his questions as best I can, because I don't really want him to know that side of me.

The meeting with the tax guys at White Devlin & Hale is short and fun. There are a bunch of people there that I used to work with on a steady basis, and they're all thrilled to see me. It's like being back home, with the endless '_do you remember?_' and '_why did you leave?_' questions. I dodge those, too, and run back to the Westin, because I don't want to keep Edward waiting.

When I'm almost there, the blackberry chirps in my bag. It's a text from Edward.

***Miss Swan, where are you? Getting nervous here. Mr. Cullen***

I smile. This guy is so polite he could be off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. Now that I think about it, Edward Ferrars _was_ a little clueless. I quickly tap a reply.

***Nearly there, Mr. Cullen. Need handholding? Miss Swan***

I've barely had the time to hit send that a new message flashes in my inbox.

***Always. Hurry back to me, Bella. Please.***

I'm instantly worried that something has gone horribly wrong while I was away. I don't pause to think that this is unlike any text, email, sticky note, voicemail, phone call or intercom cry for help that Jasper has ever sent my way in the long years of our friendship and in the four intense years we've worked together. I just tell Eric to hurry the fuck up because Edward needs me.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Last week Bella was telling Ben to "hurry the fuck up" because CluelessWard was getting antsy by text message. Dear faithful readers, without further ado, here follows CluelessWard's take on things. Be gentle with him, you know he needs some TLC.

As usual, thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for instigating me to write this and holding my hand. You rock. I am very lucky to have you all.

Shout outs for this week: Black Hale and EasyV for making me laugh my ass off last night; Eifeltwr for bowling my world over and making me forget my woes last week, Mina for giving me the longest, most hilarious reviews a writer could hope for. They will, one day, be collected into BCG - A Selection from the Readers' Digest. Ladies, you know why I keep you around. For the rest, let's blame Cedric.

CluelessWard would also like to thank, from the bottom of his forgetful heart, his faithful and regular readers and reviewers - you know who you are, because, as usual he doesn't. B wrote him a list, but he has mislaid it somewhere.

And of course, thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

More ramblings at the bottom...

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* * *

BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 10**

_Edward_

***Always. Hurry back to me, Bella. Please.***

I don't know what possessed me to send her this text. I have no handle on my emotions right now.

Bella has left me hanging with that sentence and I can't call Alice to lash out on her because it's nearly midnight in Milan. I'm also a nervous wreck because I hate interviews and I never know what to say. Bella is not here, when she was adamant that she'd be back in time for the interviews to start.

I'm pacing the room, all the while muttering profanities at no one in particular, when the door swings open and a frantic Bella appears before me like an angelic vision. She flings her purse and laptop bag in a corner and faces me, with a horror-stricken face.

"Edward, what's wrong? What happened?"

I can't help myself and seize her hands in mine. She's here, she's real. Finally.

_How much of a drama queen can you be, Cullen?_

"You're here." I allow myself a deep breath. Her worried eyes roam over my face.

"Of course I'm here. What happened, Edward? I was worried sick."

Her voice is troubled and her breath is shallow. I'm a jerk. I did this to her only because I wanted her by my side.

_You missed her, Cullen. Be honest._

My asshole self can't help noticing that she hasn't released my grasp. My thumbs start running circles on the back of her hands, more for my own comfort than hers, but she doesn't try to disentangle herself.

"I'm so sorry, Bella. I just…I just panicked. I really hate interviews and…you weren't there. I'm sorry."

"Edward, stop apologising. I'm here now. I'd never bail on you," she adds, serious again.

I relax instantly, and smile at my very own Business Class Girl.

"You wouldn't, would you?"

"Of course not. Ang would tear me a new one if I did." She says, relaxing in turn. Her gaze wanders down to our intertwined hands, and I abruptly release her, as if electrocuted by an invisible barbed wire.

"So, what is it that freaks you out so much about interviews?" She spurs me on, a concentrated frown on her face.

I shoot her a quizzical look. "I just want to make this easier for you, Edward. It's not something we can forgo entirely. We'll have to live with it, somehow."

What on earth did I do to deserve her?

Angela always tells me to just quit whining and man up. Bella is actually trying to understand me. My uneasy eyes wander around the room and my hands automatically take up permanent residence in my hair.

"It's…I just…I never know what to say. I constantly put my foot in my mouth. There is a shit-ton of things I'm supposed to say, and I mess that up, and a whole lot of things I'm not supposed to say, and that's the only things I can blurt out instead. And the worst of it is…the personal questions. I hate them." I babble on, unable to stop my sudden word vomit.

Bella nods, pensively tapping her long, elegant index finger on her nose.

"You know, I did my homework, Boss. And your interviews all turn out to be pretty interesting, so far."

I plop down in an armchair and hide my face in my hands.

"Oh, no…Did you really read them? What the fuck must you think of me now?"

Her fingers pry my hands off my face.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of. First, it was normal background info for me. Second, it's refreshing to see a young, famous, hot, quasi-millionaire actor who still manages to be level-headed, self-ironic and down-to-earth in the midst all this mayhem. You always do great, Edward."

"But those questions...they keep asking…" I am aware that I am still whining.

"If you're dating someone or not…" She cuts me off. "That's a no-go question for us. That's where I come in. They don't want to piss _me_ off." Her voice is firm and authoritative. Hell, I almost feel sorry for those reporters…Almost.

I can't help but chuckle and relax. I can do this.

_She said you're hot, Cullen__! She said you're hot!_

"You've got my back, right?"

"Always. Now go and charm their pants off, Boss." She adds, smiling congenially at me.

Without further ado, she leads me into the suite where the studios have set up the press junket.

I know very well that the real reason I am so nervous is because I'm being interviewed about the role and the film that have changed my life and my career overnight. This is where the bullshitting ends and the real deal begins. I'm afraid that I'll be weighed up, and will somehow be found lacking.

While a little boost to one's ego never hurt anyone, and Bella's pep talk has definitely served this purpose, I can't stop thinking that it's because Bella believes in me that I feel I can pull through this.

Bella also acts as an effective buffer during the interviews. She sits right behind me and chips in every time the journalist tries a no-go question or goes beyond the allotted time slots. I am both irritated and relieved that I can't see her face. On the upside, seeing her would definitely calm my nerves and make sure that I'm not looking so pissed and brooding all the time, on the downside, I'm certain that I couldn't help looking at her like a love-struck fool and I don't want to feed the press with anything that could be even remotely interesting to them.

Three hours go by and I still need to go through the last two interviews. The first one is plain vanilla. I've answered the same questions so many times by now that a life-size cut-out of me and a recorded tape would easily do the trick.

I'm running my hands in my hair so much that it's all standing on end and I surely look like a hedgehog. I'm running on vapours, when a cup of hot coffee suddenly appears beside my restless hand. In the corner of my eye, I see a cloud of mahogany hair moving back to her chair. Her voice startles me out of the endless mantra of my own voice.

"That will be all, Miss Lane. Your time is up and we need to talk to some more people."

"Could I have just five more minutes with Mr. Cullen?" Miss Lane says in a sultry voice, her eyes never leaving my face.

At this, I hear Bella's chair scrape the floor as she stands up beside me, her hand protectively placed on my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Lane, but we must decline. We cannot, in any way, favour you over your colleagues."

Bella's tone is professional, but icy and Miss Lane is suddenly very uneasy. Bella has cornered her, and I'm enjoying the show immensely. Call me a selfish bastard, but I am – the very fake Miss Lane has tried this stunt before, but I could never extricate my sorry ass from her clutches on my own.

Bella's had her trapped in five seconds. Miss Lane caves in and Bella's killer smile is a sight to behold.

"Thank you, Miss Lane. I really appreciate your understanding. It's been a pleasure."

Miss Lane retreats as quickly as Napoleon at Waterloo and leaves Bella and I alone in the room for five minutes' respite before the last rush of the day.

I'm nursing my coffee cup while Bella is quietly sipping from a Starbucks mug. I smile – my girl's habits are becoming predictable to me, and it's only the first day.

"How in heck did you manage that? Thanks, by the way." I am still awed by her quick reaction.

Bella smiles over her mug. "That? Don't even mention it. It's a standard survival technique, where I come from."

"May I ask…or is it…too personal?" I stutter again, unsure whether I'm treading forbidden territory or not.

Bella hesitates for a moment, then exhales.

"No, that's not…classified information, Edward. I worked at White, Devlin & Hale in London. Hence the contact for the tax guys, and a law firm is as replete with sharks as Hollywood can be, believe me." She ends, on a darker note. I try to push my luck before we have to go back to work.

"Devlin? As in Russell Devlin?" I am trying to feign surprise, and hoping she won't see through me.

Bella looks puzzled but nods with a fond smile. "The very one. How do you know him?"

"Lifelong friend of my dad's. He's actually Uncle Russell to me," I add, still aloof.

Bella's smile grows wider. "Seriously? Well, that's a small world. Russ is the one who hired me in the first place. He's one of the best lawyers I've ever worked with."

I clink my paper cup with her mug.

"Well, here's to our first day. Looks like we have something in common."

The look in her eyes is so serene and affectionate that I can't tear my own gaze away as she answers.

"Well, we do. To us, Edward."

_She said 'us' again, Cullen._

Someone knocks and she rushes to open the door while she's saying over my shoulder. "The last one, Boss. Then we can call it a day."

I nod and brace myself. The last one, of course, has to be the toughest one. Aro Ziegfeld, the self-appointed anchor of a trendy blog that follows a few popular cinema franchises and every star and non-star involved in them. The actual cinema content of the blog is next to nothing, the rest is haphazard info and, mostly, unfounded gossip. He's popular, though, and apparently the studios don't want to piss him off.

Survival techniques in Hollywood include a lot of ass-kissing. I hope Bella encountered that as well, in the legal arena, because otherwise we'll be royally screwed by blogger asshole deluxe in five nanoseconds flat.

Aro Ziegfeld comes across as an overdone, campy guy that reminds you of someone in between Elton John and Holly Johnson in their heyday. His sardonic grin, though, could rival Jack Nicholson's in The Shining.

This guy isn't going to play by the rules, even if his first questions are pretty inane and boiler plate: how I got the part, how I prepared for it, yadda, yadda.

I blurt out my usual, well-rehearsed answers and everything goes smoothly, until he fishes out a blurry picture of the premiere after-party. It shows yours truly puking over Jessica (Alba)'s dress. Bollocks. How in fuck did he get this? The party was at the director's house in Malibu and no photographers (hence, no paps) were around. Security was too tight.

Bella has smelled a rat and quickly pries the photo away from the table.

"I'm sure you don't mind if I have a proper look at that, Mr Ziegfeld."

Aro wordlessly gestures his consent. I try to put on a poker face, calling all my actor superpowers to the rescue.

"This looks like it was acquired illegally to me, Mr Ziegfeld. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you where you got it." Bella's voice is icy again.

Aro grins. "I'm sure you're aware that I cannot disclose my sources, Miss..." The disagreeable sneer he directs towards Bella makes my hackles rise.

"It's Dr. Swan to you, Mr. Ziegfeld. And you'll do well to bear in mind that this picture amounts to breaking and entering of Mr. Radcliffe's domicile, who hosted this party at his private residence. We'll enforce that in court, if need be." Scratch that, her voice is colder than Antarctica and she's looking downright scary.

_Yes, Cullen, you got that right. Dr. Swan. Holy hell._

"Yes, my PhD in Law, Mr. Ziegfeld, makes me a doctor.

"Well, _Dr. Swan_, if you want to play this the hard way, on what authority would you challenge my sources, Dr. Swan?" he sneers at Bella again, trying to egg her on.

He's threatening Bella, he's threatening my Business Class Girl. My hands fist up in sheer anger and frustration, because I'm well aware that I can't say anything, leaving Bella to fend him off alone. My blood is nearly boiling with rage.

"On the authority that the breaking and entering of a private residence is still a felony in California. And on the grounds that your blog will be annihilated if it gets out that your so-called news is only obtained through illegal means and not honest research in the field. What would that do to your credibility, Mr. Ziegfeld?"

Bella does not bat an eyelid as she stares down at this scumbag, arms akimbo and eyebrows raised.

_Damn, Cullen. She's hot when she's pissed._

"Well, may I ask about Edward's co-star, then? They looked pretty cosy at the premiere."

"You may not. Mr. Cullen does not discuss his personal life. You are here to ask about his professional activities only." She cuts him off immediately, still icy.

"She's his co-star, it's a perfectly legitimate question." He tries to protest.

"It's still off the table, Aro. This interview is over."

"You know I'll write whatever I please, Dr. Swan." He's still fighting, but Bella doesn't flinch.

"I will check your blog personally tomorrow morning, Aro. Don't try anything funny, I have ammunition against you. Good afternoon." More ice coming Aro's way. How in heck does she do it?

With this last blow, Aro Ziegfeld leaves the room in a cloud of indignation. Bella plops down in her chair. She looks exhausted.

"Crap, Edward. I'm so sorry. Ang will have my skin for this. I'm so sorry." She looks deflated, all of her earlier bravado gone from her voice.

I kneel in front of her and squeeze her hands reassuringly.

"Stop apologising, Bella. You were awesome. A PhD in Law? I'm humbled that you're even putting up with me," I quip, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"That? Well, technically, not yet. But he doesn't have to know. Still…Not sure what Ang will think of this."

"We'll worry about that later. First, take a deep breath, and my heartfelt thanks. You had my back twice today."

She offers me a small, shy smile.

"I told you, that's my job. I know no other way of doing it. It's all or nothing for me, Edward." Her voice is hesitant and low and I get a distinct impression that she isn't just talking about her job.

"Well, I'm extremely glad that you work for me and, again, I hope I never get on the wrong side of you." I repeat my earlier joke, smiling.

"You don't need to worry about that." She whispers, with that cute blush of hers in full bloom on her cheeks.

_You wanna kiss her, Cullen. Admit it._

"Ready to head back to the office?" I ask, before I get carried away.

She nods, and we silently climb into the limo. The ride back to Angela's office is the polar opposite of this morning's. She's no longer sitting far away from me, she's right beside me, her purse, laptop bag and 'crackberry' thrown haphazardly on the seat in front of us.

I cast a glance in her direction, to see that she's still looking uneasy. I tap on the divider to catch the driver's attention.

"Ben, please stop at the first Starbucks and get Miss Swan a mug of tea. Earl Grey, no sugar, no milk, no lemon."

"Yes, Mr. Cullen." Ben answers as the divider goes up again.

Bella looks quizzically at me.

"Edward, how did you…?" She trails off, and I suddenly realise my epic blunder. Inspiration strikes, though, and saves my ass.

"I do my homework too, Bella," I answer, with a lopsided grin and a wink.

Me, Bella, and a mug of Earl Grey. This is the happiest I've felt since I moved to this crazy town.

_BCG's POV_

"I do my homework too, Bella."

Is it the wink, or the half-smile that's done me in? Is there a rational reason why I'm sitting in a limo with my boss, my freaking hot actor of a boss, and my knees are weak?

This can't be happening to LA Bella. This is happening to BeeBee, who has little self-esteem and is starved for genuine male affection from someone who does not share my gene pool.

What is it about this guy? One day, and I'm a babbling teenager?

How can I cope for weeks, months even? What will I do when we are on the road, working till the wee hours of the night, getting through film shoots and travel, if I can't make one day unscathed?

I need to bolt and run like hell.

No. No way. BeeBee wants to run, but LA Bella will not run. LA Bella is a hard-ass professional and she will not lose ground. She will pull through this, one day at a time, possibly while she avoids falling for her boss.

It's humanly impossible, though, not to have a soft spot for this guy. He's worked his ass off today, without complaint, and not a single impolite answer or a hissy fit. He's done much better than the average corporate lawyer, who can get away with dodging phone calls and yelling at his assistant if his knickers are in a twist. (Yes, Jasper did that a lot.)

He's been witty, polite, informative, humble, ironic and just downright adorable with every journalist we've had to talk to. Even to that skank, Miss Lane. My musings are interrupted by his gentle touch on my forearm.

"Your tea, Bella," he says, softly.

"Thank you, Edward. You didn't need to do that."

"But you needed it. I want to make your life easier, too, if I can. You have to put up with the likes of Aro Ziegfeld for my sake. A mug of tea is the least I can do." He looks bashful.

"Edward, what's wrong? I know I didn't handle that very well… but…"

He puts a finger up to my lips to silence me. I want to lick that finger. Or bite it. Or both, in that order.

"You were great. I feel like a failure because I let you fight my battle." He finally admits.

I shake my head. This guy is definitely too much of a gentleman to be in this business.

"Edward, again, that was my place and my call. You can't be mean to the press, but I can be mean for you. It's a team effort, if anything," I try to explain, my voice hardly above a whisper.

He smiles, and his green eyes light up like wild emeralds. He truly is gorgeous. Bella, focus. He's still your boss.

We're back at Angela's office and Emmett's boisterous laugh welcomes us in the foyer. Jess has long gone home and Ang herself is ready to leave.

"I've come to collect my little sister and take her home. It's her first day of school, after all," he says as he envelopes me in a hug.

"Thanks, Em. I'm done in," I say as I try to stifle a yawn.

"That's why I'm cooking tonight, BeeBee."

Emmett bumps fists with Edward. Are they on gangsta brotherhood terms already?

"Edward, man. How's life?"

"Awesome, Emmett. Your sister's a shark," Edward answers, a mischievous tone in his voice.

I'm witnessing a weird and potentially dangerous conversation but my batteries are too exhausted for me to be able to cut in.

"That she is. Wait till you piss her off, though. I still can't find my Playstation cable. I'm going through GH withdrawals," Emmett whines, like the 5-year-old brat that he is.

Edward shoots me a quizzical look. I mouth the words '_Guitar Hero_' to him and he nods back with a mock-serious expression.

"Do you wanna tag along for dinner, man?" Emmett asks, out of the blue. Edward's mouth is agape, mine is drawn into a thin, tense line.

Emmett will never reach the ripe old age of 35, because I'll kill him long before his next birthday. I try the very-pissed Bella stink eye, but he doesn't take the hint. Edward does, though, because he looks uncertain.

"Well, I'm not sure…Bella deserves a break from me…I'll just go home…but thanks for offering." Edward stammers through his reply, his unease evident. Emmett is oblivious and unrelenting, though.

"Nonsense, go home to what? Take-out? And pass up the best steak in Venice Beach? You wound me, man!"

Emmett has cornered him (and me, unknowingly). Edward looks apologetically at me and I nod my silent consent. Emmett is blissfully unaware of this exchange and only hears Edward's answer. "Well, if that's the case, count me in, Em!"

I turn to Angela, ready to grovel for the clusterfuck I caused with Aro's interview, but she beats me to the punch.

"B, can you explain why Aro Ziegfeld called me earlier, to discuss his latest interview with wonder boy here?" She weaves a cryptic undertone into her question.

LA Bella is too exhausted to answer this and BeeBee is left alone to clean up the mess.

"Ang, about that. I'm so sorry I didn't call you but…"

Edward interrupts me, wedged between Ang and me, as if he wanted to physically protect me from Ang's wrath.

"Ang, Aro was out of line and Bella kept him in check. I don't want to hear another word about this. End of story."

He doesn't look like a clueless young actor anymore. His mouth is pressed in a hard, thin line and his brow has a stern, menacing expression. His eyes are a sombre, intriguing shade of forest green.

Ang bursts out laughing. Both Edward and I shoot her a very puzzled look, hoping she'll care to elaborate.

"So you don't want to hear that the asshole called to grovel and apologise for being out of line, and to actually confirm that his feature on Edward will only focus on his latest movie, in the most glowing terms?"

Angela's megawatt smile could light up this whole city. Apparently, LA Bella did not fuck this up. I let out a very relieved sigh. Edward is speechless. Emmett is laughing.

"Little sis, what the hell did you do to that guy?"

Ang precedes me, yet again. "Guy is a loose definition in this instance, Em. Anyway, our B here must have jumped to the big guns, and kudos to her. I've been itching to give that asshole a taste of his own medicine for some time. Well done B, that was a good day's work."

I'm still wondering about Aro and his call with Angela. "But how? He looked so arrogant at the interview…I can't imagine…"

"You threatened him with the law, B. That did the trick. Rumour has it that the guy has a murky past and it seems he doesn't want it rehashed, either in court or outside. Good call, B. Now go home and celebrate!" And with that, she disappears from the foyer.

Emmett, once again, saves the day when Edward and I can't muster up one cogent word between the two of us.

"Well, lady and gentleman! The hottest grill in Venice Beach awaits! Let's go!"

And this is how, an hour later, the three of us are sitting on the deck of my house, while the steaks are marinating to Em's liking.

I'm still in my work clothes, even if I'm itching to ditch the power suit and the stilettos and revert back to my true self – sweatpants and run-down Chucks. I can't, though. With Edward here, I still feel like I'm on the clock, plus I'd love to avoid more bonding time between my brother and my boss. Em shakes me out of my musings and decides it for me.

"BeeBee, are you really going to eat grilled steaks like this?" Em asks, right on to me.

"As in, Emmie?" I ask, faking indifference.

"As in, dressed like a power secretary, with your killer designer suit and heels. Who are you, and what have you done with my sister? She wears Chucks at home, go get changed. Now."

He's in big brother mode and for once, I silently thank him for having no brain filter whatsoever.

"Aye-aye, Captain. Be right back. Don't you two gang up on me while I'm away."

Emmett smiles with an innocent '_who me?_' look as he's handing Edward a beer.

I return ten minutes later, to the sound of Mission Impossible thundering from my phone. It's Jasper's ringtone and I pick up, noticing that it's an ungodly hour in London. The poor guy is probably still working.

"Jazz, still up? How are you, Genius?"

"I'm fine, BeeBee, but this deal is killing me slowly. I can't wait to be done with it. I miss you, traitor!" He sounds exhausted.

I'm listening to the familiar sound of Jasper's weary voice as I walk back to the deck, and I realise that I miss him too, but there's no way I'm going back to my old life.

"Miss you too, Genius. But I'm not coming back, if that's why you're calling," I jibe.

He chuckles. "You know me too well, BeeBee. I was actually calling for another reason. Are you home?"

Now I'm intrigued. "Yes, I am. Em's grilling steaks tonight."

"Damn, and I'm in London. Eat one for me, will you, BeeBee? Get Emmett and put me on speaker. I need to talk to both of you."

"Sure, Genius. Let me get to the deck."

I rejoin Edward and Emmett. Edward meets me with a blinding smile.

"Em, Jasper's on the phone and wants to talk to you too. Sorry, Edward, this is going to take five minutes."

Emmett nods. Edward mouths '_no problem_' to me as I put Jazz on speaker.

"Jazz, you're on. No funny business, we have a guest tonight." I announce.

"Care to tell me who it is, BeeBee, so that I can be polite and say hello?" Jazz quips, sounding curious.

Em, of course, needs to thrown in his tuppence in.

"It's BeeBee's new boss, Jazz, Edward Cullen. As in, _the _Edward Cullen."

Edward looks bashful, he's being drawn into Em's crazy antics once again.

"And that's why you'll both behave and make this quick and painless for everyone, right?" I chip in, trying to stave off any funny idea of theirs.

"Edward, it's a pleasure to meet you, even if you did steal BeeBee from me," Jasper finally says. Could have been worse, I guess.

"Well met, Jasper. I may not give her back, though. And I'd say sorry, but I'm not. She saved my ass twice today."

Now it's my turn to look bashful and blush. Edward's smile grows wider. Jasper is speechless and Edward goes on.

"Jasper, would you be so kind as to give Russell Devlin my regards?" For some strange reason, Edward is enjoying this. There's a clattering sound at the other end. I decide to rescue Jasper from the rough patch.

"Genius, Russ is a good old friend of Edward's dad," I add quickly, for Jazz's benefit.

"Well, that's good to know. He'll be thrilled to know that BeeBee is in good hands, though he's not so happy with her right now."

"Why ever would that be, Jasper? What did I do, now?" I ask, sounding shocked.

"You left him stranded without a golfing partner. He's pissed as hell."

Edward is stunned and mouths to me '_you play golf?_' and I nod.

"Jasper, will you get to the point? We have Em's steaks waiting."

"Damn, don't remind me. And I have hours of negotiations waiting. Right, guys, I wanted to check what your Christmas plans were, if any."

Emmett turns to me and says. "BeeBee, do we have any Christmas plans, yet?"

I shake my head and add, for Jasper's benefit. "No, we don't. I'm technically off the clock, since Edward will be back in London with his family." I catch Edward frowning from the corner of my eye.

"Great news, because Rosalie and I would love to fly out and gatecrash your Christmas," Jasper finally announces, an unmistakable thrill in his voice.

Emmett is ecstatic. He hasn't seen Rosie in months. "You're bringing my girl back to me? And you're tagging along? Sounds damn awesome to me, man! When are you flying in?"

"Don't know yet. Just wanted to run the idea past you first. BeeBee?"

"I'm thrilled to see you both, Genius. It'll be great to spend Christmas together, that's a brilliant idea. Email me your flight details."

"I will, when my new, inept assistant sorts them out. BeeBee, are you sure you couldn't…?" He trails off, pleading.

I chuckle. "Nice try, Genius. I have other flight plans to worry about, now."

Edward smiles fondly at me. Emmett shakes his head and chuckles too.

"Well, man, quit harassing my sister. We'll leave you to your negotiations. We have steaks to grill." And without even blinking, he clicks my phone shut.

Edward breaks the silence first. "You really play golf? You used to play golf with Uncle Russ?"

Emmett chips in, totally uninvited. "She has a killer swing, too. Pass me the plates, BeeBee, will you?"

The dinner goes smoothly and I actually have fun with my big brother and my boss. Edward is as funny and gentlemanly as ever, and Emmett gets along famously with him. I should be worried, but I'm mighty pleased about this.

Emmett's presence is a great buffer between Edward and me, what with his continuous banter at my expense and his countless questions to Edward. This varied chit-chat distracts me from falling prey to any undue thoughts I might entertain about my boss and prevents us both from talking shop.

Apart from the tax issues and the Aro Ziegfeld showdown, there are tons of things I need to discuss with Edward, but they will all have to wait until morning.

Emmett has really outdone himself tonight, going so far as to risk making a cheesecake, which, to be perfectly honest, has been made following my own recipe, in my own kitchen, with my own tools, but still…I could get used to my brother spoiling me rotten like this.

I'm handing out chunks (slices do not exist in Emmett's universe) of said cheesecake, when Edward surprises me, by talking shop himself.

"Bella, you were saying earlier this morning that you've looked into a few housing options?"

I cut a very crooked chunk of cheesecake, which I set aside from my clumsy self, recover my composure and give Edward an abridged version of my findings.

"Yep. There are a bunch you might want to look at, selected on the basis of a few common sense criteria, and a certain budget range. And, of course, location, location, location…"

Emmett, of course, has to contribute to the conversation in his own special way.

"BeeBee, I can only imagine what your common sense criteria might be…"

I can take jibes from my brother at any time, on any topic, barring my work, and he knows it. He's throwing a gauntlet here, precisely leveraged on Edward's presence. The bastard – as if I couldn't find a way out of this anyway.

"Em, thanks for the vote of confidence. You will kindly remember that your Playstation cables are still M.I.A. and, if you want visitation rights any time this century, you might want to reconsider that statement…"

Edward is watching, utterly diverted.

"Em, when she starts mentioning the legal crap, I'd wave the white flag, if I were you. She doesn't have to pay the lawyers' fees, you know."

They both chuckle. "Man, as if I didn't know. Sorry, Sis, I'll behave. For the sake of Guitar Hero."

I smack his arm playfully and return my attention to Edward.

"Edward, I think you'd better have a look at those options, and then just go with your gut. You're not buying, true, but it's still a long term lease we're looking into. Just pick something you like, that you could feel comfortable in. We can do that tomorrow."

Edward sighs. "Something I like, and where I'll probably spend one week out of ten. Big deal."

"You're really looking for a new house, Eddie?" Em asks.

"Yes, but don't call me Eddie, if you want me to answer you."

"Because you might want to check out right here." Em says with a grin.

"Em, define '_right here_', please." I ask, turning to Emmett.

"Well, right here, as in two houses down this lane, same gated community."

I raise an eyebrow. This is complete news to me. "Kate and Garrett are moving?"

"Not exactly. Garrett's been offered a post in Hong Kong for the next two or three years and they don't want to sell the house yet. So they're looking for someone who could do with a long term lease, to start with."

I scrunch my eyebrows, and revert back to work mode while I calculate square footing, rooms, and price range in my head. Plus the totally negligible fact that my boss would be my next door neighbour but one. That alone would be a big no-go for me.

Edward, of course, lights up at the news and starts grilling Emmett about it. The house in itself would be perfect for Edward. Not too big, not too small, perfectly kept, tastefully decorated but not overdone, beach access in a safe, gated community in a crazy but almost celebrity-free neighbourhood. Budget would not be so material. Downside: location, location, location, and the neighbours.

I hope he dislikes the house intensely and acutely. I hope he wants to move to Irvine instead.

My hopes and musings are interrupted by the very unwelcome sound of 'Werewolves of London'. I freeze in place, unsure what to do. Emmett senses my discomfort and lays a soothing hand on my forearm.

"I told you, BeeBee. You don't owe him anything – let the fucking phone ring," Em says, sternly, his eyes protectively meeting mine.

I heave a resigned sigh. LA Bella knows he is right and would gladly crush her cherished iPhone on the floor, if that could stop Jake from calling. BeeBee, on the other hand, has been talking to Rose in the meantime, and has a few bones to pick with Mr Asshole – not that her grip on her emotions is such that she would get out of this ordeal unscathed, all the more factoring in Edward's presence.

I heave another laboured sigh and head back to the living room. At least, if I go completely berserk, Em and Edward will only overhear scraps of the conversation.

"I don't know why you keep tormenting yourself, BeeBee." Em's angry words are the last thing I hear before I answer my phone and insert myself into another cutthroat confrontation with Jake.

* * *

**PIMP MY FIC CORNER:**

I am beta'ing three - and I say three - fantastic stories at the moment. Go read them! Now!

A) Second Chances Never Looked So Good, by Eifeltwr - .net/s/5526736/1/ - it's got a super hot CowboyWard...A roll in the hay, anyone?

B) Love & Secrets, by MinaRivera - .net/s/6306242/1/ - Edward is in Japan, visiting his super-cool parents (this story has got the hottest, coolest Edward Sr out there. But I warn you, I'm biased). He has a very unexpected encounter. I'm not saying more...

C) The Perfect Girl, by MinaRivera - .net/s/5824255/1/ - Bella is an artist. Edward is company tycoon and also...a Prince, minus the white horse and the shining armour. Their worlds collide...in a very good way.

I am TOTALLY owned by this one fic, as in "Drop Everything Else The Minute You Get The Update". It's Parachute by KitsuShel ( .net/s/6036478/1 ). You are not reading it? Where have you been living, under a rock? It's got great music by Train, a sweet, caring, fun-loving Bella, and one of the broodiest, most intense, hottest Edwards out there. Heartfail warning, though - this is not for the faint of heart...


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: CluelessWard is back...and gets to witness a rather awkward phone call, that we are itching to overhear too...

As usual, thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and PeepToe for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. Thank you to Lory and Debbie for still holding my hand, and for coming with me to London later this month, for some quality stalking. Now I would like to know, who's the jerk who alerted RPattz that we'd come by, and scared him off so he'd fly back to the West Coast?

Shout outs for this week: Mina and EasyV for nagging me till I gave up a teaser for this over on FB, and Melbie Toast for all the scrumptilicious RobP0rn. Black Hale, for rocking my world with Nerdalicious Pics of RobWard in glasses. CluelessWard has been getting antsy to lay his hands on BeeBee's glasses ever since. Ladies, you know why I keep you around. For the rest, let's blame Cedric.

CluelessWard would also like to thank, from the bottom of his forgetful heart, his faithful and regular readers and reviewers - you know who you are, because, as usual he doesn't. B wrote him a list, but he has mislaid it somewhere.

And of course, thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

"Goodnight and go" belongs to Imogen Heap.

Pimp My Fic Corner at the bottom...

**

* * *

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**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 11**

_Edward_

"I don't know why she keeps tormenting herself." Emmett repeats, muttering to himself, and surely not for my own benefit.

I'm really feeling like an unwelcome guest and I'm almost tempted to leave. I'm sure Bella did not want me to witness this, much less than she wanted me over for dinner but… What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment and I couldn't bear to say goodbye. I just wanted more time with her.

I don't know what to say. I don't even know if I'm supposed to say something. Anything that I might come up with would sound nosy or out of line, so silence it is. I look away from Emmett and devote my full attention to my cheesecake.

Talk about awkward situations. After an amazing dinner, with amazing company, I'm sitting on the deck of my assistant's home with her brother, while she is shouting profanities on the phone with an unidentified caller. It doesn't really take rocket science, though, to figure out that such distress could only be triggered by the unsettling reappearance of an ex-boyfriend. My memory recalls a flight to NY, months ago, and a conversation with a certain bloke named 'Jake'…

My nasty suspicions are confirmed by the next scrap of conversation Emmett and I are forced to witness.

"I talked to Rose, Jake, so don't try bullshitting me anymore."

"I was a means to an end, Jake. That's all I was to you." Bella is seething with rage, shouting through angry tears.

My instincts are urging me to run and comfort her, but my lone, overworked brain cell tells me to stay put. It's not my place, while her own brother sits right across me. Emmett notices my discomfort and throws a weird glance my way. I guess the guy's on to me.

_If only you were less transparent, Cullen._

The next thing I hear is a loud crash. Bella's actually so mad that she's throwing things all over the place. The next words we hear are gut-wrenching, blood-curling, stone-cold. Cold, bitter and enraged.

"I will not talk to you ever me again. I won't let you ruin my life again. I'll be off your radar. The CIA, the MI6 and Google combined won't ever find me. We are over, Jake. Are you getting it? Over!"

Another loud crash. The French doors to the deck violently slide open, and Bella's running away from the house.

Emmett tries to stop her. "BeeBee, come back!"

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

_Wait, Cullen! Did Bella just growl? Why is the traitor 'downstairs' twitching, then?_

Emmett reluctantly backs off.

"It's always like that when she talks to him." Emmett mutters, still visibly angry.

"That her boyfriend?" I ask, non-committal, preferring not to make assumptions.

"He still wishes, the asshole. Man can't take a hint."

I still don't know what to say. Most of my potential comments would give away that I know more than I'm supposed to about Bella and her goings-on. I need to tread this unsteady ground carefully. Not a mean feat, for clueless old me.

As it turns out, I don't have to put too much effort into this, because Emmett spills the beans of his own accord.

"She'd kill me if she knew I was telling you this…" he begins.

"Let me guess…No visitation rights?"

"Hell, man, I'd be left to play with Lego blocks, let alone my Playstation but...you're going to spend a lot of time with her, and you need to know," he starts playfully, but ends on a serious, ominous note.

"Emmett, I don't want to pry into Bella's personal concerns. She has made it very clear that…" I interrupt, my voice hesitant and low. I have no idea where Bella is, and the last thing I want is for her to overhear us discussing this.

Emmett silences me with a commanding hand. "That she wants to keep them to herself? That's my sister for you, Edward. Welcome to the convoluted workings of her mind. She may think I'm just a beefy ex-jock, and that my sensitivity extends only so far as the length of my dick…"

This man is ruthlessly honest, and he adores Bella. I think I've met my new best friend. Sorry, Alice, but I will need someone to turn to for some locker-room talk in the long, hard months ahead. I sense there's a 'but' in Em's speech somewhere.

"But…?"

"But… she's my baby sister, man. I hate to stand and watch while he makes a meal out of her, crushing her confidence, abusing her selflessness and forcing her to leave home in the process. I'd sooner kill him," he continues, his expression deformed in an angry, stern scowl.

"Emmett, do you mean that…" I don't really know what I'm asking, I just want to know more. I just want a name, an address, a freaking postcode or a fucking phone number, anything to track down this mongrel and give him my best regards. Repeatedly and painfully.

"He's one of the reasons she left London. But I'm not telling you the specifics, it's her story to tell," he finally admits, in one hushed breath.

"And you are telling me this much because?"

My thoughts are a tangled mess of shock, anxiety, anger and concern.

"Because, as I said, you're going to spend a lot of time with her. Whenever she starts second-guessing herself, whenever she gets weird phone calls, and has these mood swings, it's because Mr Asshole has reappeared. She'll be weird, she'll be angry. Leave her be to let off some steam," he says, his fingers restlessly drumming the table.

I can't wrap my mind around the fact that there could be, anywhere in this world, someone so abusive and mean who could shatter my Bella's confidence. She was so bossy, self-assured and business-like this morning. She confronted Aro fucking Ziegfeld, for god's sake, and now she's crumbling because of a phone call from this scumbag?

I shake my head and try to follow Emmett's line of thought.

"So that's what she's doing now, letting off steam?"

"Yeah. I'd normally try and help her out of this, but as you saw, tonight she sent me packing," he answers, as a tight-lipped smile finally creeps up on his almost childlike face.

A cursory glance at my 'crackberry' tells me it's time for me to go. Bella and I have an early start tomorrow. I wonder if she'll be in any shape to face the field day we'll be having.

"I really need to go, Em. Thanks for telling me all this."

"Remember, Eddie. There's one reason I told you." My eyebrows knit together. Go figure – Emmett talks in riddles, now.

"Because I'm her boss and I'm hogging her time 24/7?"

Emmett flashes a sly, pearl-white grin at me.

"No. Because she likes you," he quips, suggestively quirking an eyebrow in my direction.

Dumbstruck. This is my only clever reaction at Emmett's revelation.

_She likes you, Cullen._

"Don't play dumb, man. She likes you."

"Em…you think…" I stammer, for the umpteenth time this evening.

"Yes, wonder boy. Follow the footpath around the house down to the beach."

"Thank you, Em." I call, over my shoulder, and I realise I'm thanking Emmett not just for dinner, not just for offering me a glimpse of Bella's mind, but rather for acknowledging Bella's feelings to me and… for letting me know, in his own way, that he's ok with it.

I have an inkling, at the back of my head, that it won't stop him from breaking my bones if I fuck this up.

What is '_this_' anyway? I wonder, as I make my way to the beach and to Bella, who will, in the best case scenario, tell me to mind my own fucking business and sod off, just as she did with Emmett.

_This_ is me, being obsessed with my assistant to the point I became a stalker even before I met her.

_This_ is me, being mesmerised by her quiet, understated beauty, by her grace and sweetness.

_This_ is me, completely in awe of her skills, of her sixth sense in managing my impossible self and my crazy-ass schedule, without so much as a handover from Jess and Angela.

_This_ is me, utterly and totally unable to do without her after only 24 hours of working together.

I don't really know what '_this_' means, and if there's more to it. My clueless self has no idea. I'll have to fly by the seat of my pants (or '_go with my guts_', as Bella said) and, for once, I'll follow my sister's advice. I'll try to get to know Bella, and be there for her.

There she is, sitting in the sand, her knees gathered to her chest, her head resting on her linked hands and her hair fanned around her shoulders. I try to approach her without making noise, so she doesn't hear my footsteps in the sand, nor does she sense my presence. She is too wrapped up in her own bubble.

I crouch behind her, unsure what to do. Then, I give in and go with my guts. My hand slowly, tentatively reaches out to touch her shoulder. My thumb starts running circles on her collar bone, the very same collar bone I'd like to shower with heated kisses and do other unspeakable things to. Except, that's not what she needs right now. Right now, she needs someone to lean on, someone who will neither question nor judge her.

Paradoxically, this is ideal for me, because I officially know next to nothing about her, and I am duty-bound not to question her about her life. Still, I brace myself for a few choice words from her colourful vocabulary.

"Edward?" she whispers, still facing away from me, her eyes staring at the midnight blue expanse of the ocean in front of her.

Dumbstruck, twice over. Not only I don't get the choice words, she also knows it's me.

"How did you…?"

"Your fingers are nothing like Emmett's. There's no way he'd be so gentle."

"Uh?" is my brilliant, MIT-worthy response.

"Emmett's hands are twice as big, and he's crushed his fingers multiple times. Ex-jock, remember?" She turns to face me, a strained smile on her lips.

"Oh. That. Right." Slightly less speech-impaired, still not much of a Roman orator.

"Besides, you have the long, elegant fingers of a musician and there's a little mole to the side of your left thumb," she adds, her tone hushed, her eyes averted from me again, as if she was giving away an unforgivable secret.

Blimey. She's taken a freaking good look at my hands. And I thought I was the stalker.

_It's just your hands, Cullen. Just your hands._

"So, should I 'leave you the fuck alone', too?" I whisper against her shoulder.

She shakes her head and her hand weaves through mine. "No, Edward. Don't. Though I wish you didn't have to see that."

I sit down beside her, my hand still entwined with hers.

"Don't even go there, Bella. This is your home, I shouldn't even be here…hogging your space and time while you're…off the clock."

She winces. "About that. Sorry about blabbing your plans to Jasper. I was careless. I should know better that telling this kind of thing to just anyone."

I shake my head. Too much second-guessing, too many apologies. I want some of my bad-ass Bella back, even if the urge to protect and cuddle this vulnerable Bella is almost overpowering.

"Stop apologising. That's not classified information and, even if it was, Jasper's not '_just about anyone_'. I guess he knows a thing or two about not broadcasting it around."

She nods and sniffs at the same time.

"I'm not asking you any questions about what happened tonight, Bella. I just know that you're upset, and it doesn't sit well with me…" I start again, but before long my voice ends up in a near growl, at the mere thought of what she's just been through.

"I don't want to…" She starts, but I'm faster and I silence her, my index finger slowly tracing her lower lip.

_Bad move, Cullen. Now you want to kiss her._

"You're not doing anything, Bella. I'm only telling you that I'm here for you, anytime. Punching bag, private shrink. I'm clueless about most things, but I'm a good listener."

"You're far from clueless, Edward…but you're my boss…" she trails off, still averting her eyes from me.

Ouch. Guess I walked right into that one.

"That doesn't mean we can't talk to each other, right?"

I don't want her to build other walls between us.

"Talk as in…?"

"As in…friends who work together? How does that sound?"

_Epic, Cullen. Self-relegated to the dead-end friend status._

"As in…you think this could actually work?" She asks, swinging our linked hands before my eyes.

"As in…we're a great team, Bella." She nods again.

"That we are, Edward. Let's rock this boat, Boss."

"Anytime, B."

Ang's nickname escapes my lips before I can even realise it. I'm afraid I've made another blunder, but Bella's own blinding smile tells me that, for once, clueless yours truly hasn't fucked up.

I say goodnight and go.

_BCG's POV_

_Say goodnight and go_

_You get me every time_

_Why do you have to be so cute?_

_It's impossible to ignore you_

_Must you make me laugh so much?_

_It's bad enough we get along so well_

_Say goodnight and go_

There, I did it again. I dictated conditions to Angela, and I'm the first one to fuck them up. I wanted to build an entirely professional work relationship. A successful, mutually satisfactory, but perfectly detached interaction between employer and employee. Not a day has gone by, and I've thrown it all out the window.

My new year's resolutions (so to speak) were built on false assumptions. My inner lawyer, the London Bella, who has worked countless hours with Jasper finding impossible loopholes in artfully worded contracts, is already cringing in horror. A one-line version for a legal crap dummy (as Edward would say) merely says that my giant has feet of clay, and it's bound to sink beneath its own weight.

I was in way over my head, thinking I could embark in this kind of job again and separate my own life from it. I cannot do it – if anything, because if all goes according to plan, I'll have very little life left to myself in the coming months. This leads me to think that my parallel project, my dream career, could meet a violent dead end and be put on a back burner again. But I don't want to think about this now.

Instead, I am still pondering my latest stroke of stupidity, when I conceded that Edward and I could be friends. The question is not whether we can be, because we already make a fuck-awesome team. It's whether we should.

Should I be friends with my boss? Does he really mean it, when he says he'll be there for me?

I was friends with Jazz long before we started working together. Regardless, the dynamics changed when I first joined the firm. All this '_talk to me, I'm here for you_' was still there, it only tended to be pretty one-sided.

He vented, he ranted, he shouted and I was on the receiving end. End of story. I was not allowed to have breakdowns, because I was the designated pillar of strength. I was not allowed to answer '_I don't know_', because my uncertainty would drown Jasper in a gurgling ocean of doubt.

So here I am, tracing idle circles in the sand, one week after our heart-to-heart in the moonlight, and I'm still pretty puzzled at what transpired from it. All in all, I've made my way through the last week pretty safely, trying to learn the ropes of this insidious business from Angela.

Meanwhile, Edward is still up to his neck in promotion rounds for the movie, but there's still loads of things we need to sort out together, on a daily basis.

While the tax guys at White Devlin & Hale have sorted out his taxes, I've navigated my way through six months of his credit card statements and of his bills, personal and business-related. I've done the same for Jasper for years, but Jazz was clinically precise about his expenses, and this side of my work, though tedious enough, always went without a hitch.

With Edward…Let's say that I figured out most of it on my own, after double checking every single receipt with his calendar, courtesy of Jessica. To my immense relief, Jessica and Angela are as much organised as Edward is clueless. Otherwise, I would have never emerged from the shapeless tangle of papers that he dumped on my desk.

I've memorised the next six months of his calendar, and I'm pretty much on top of everything that's going on, and I've liaised and introduced myself to all vital press and production contracts. After this first meet-and-greet with everyone, I have the distinct impression that, while all these people respect Angela and would go to any lengths not to piss her off (not a smart thing to do, in Hollywood), they've all welcomed me warmly and with more than a tad of relief, as if my presence finally provided them with a buffer or a benefit they didn't have before.

I've also filed and sorted out chronologically all the contracts he's already signed. Needless to say, my inner lawyer felt the need to read through all of them, and get a clearer picture of what I'm dealing with.

Some of these contracts include pretty stringent and demanding provisions and I can't help but wonder why Edward has agreed to sign them without even questioning or mitigating them. Then it hits me – he probably doesn't even read them, Angela does and, on the business side of things, even I must admit that these contracts are pretty good and remunerative for Edward, in the long run.

This means that Angela advised him to sign, because the contracts were good for him and, since he trusts her implicitly, in all likelihood, he went along with whatever she advised. I trust Angela, too, and there's actually nothing major to worry about with these contracts, apart from the fact that Edward probably needs to be more involved with this, clueless or not, and I am determined to make him see reason, at least with the contracts that he's still negotiating.

Last but not least, since month-end is approaching fast, I've taken him or, rather, dragged him, to see a few houses, but none of them are to his liking. One's too far away, one's in an uninspiring neighbourhood, another's too tacky, and so on and so forth. He's hell-bent on the one house he hasn't even seen yet, the Venice Beach house, namely the one that would make him my neighbour.

Needless to say, I'm not thrilled about it. It would be the final nail in the coffin to my fruitless attempts to keep some distance from my boss-friend.

Em's dulcet tones shake me out of my musings with a thunderous shout.

"BeeBee! Eddie on the phone for you!"

"Coming!" I reply, with my own answering shout.

I tiptoe in the sand back to the house and onto the deck, where Em is having breakfast while reading Sports Illustrated. It's 7.30am and Edward is phoning me. I wonder what's up, already.

Em is snickering while he gestures to my blackberry.

"Good morning, Boss. Did you fall off the bed?"

He chuckles. "No, my mean assistant set the alarm on my 'crackberry'. She babies me too much."

"Do I know her? Maybe I could convince her to drop those habits."

Edward back-pedals quickly. "Please don't. It feels awfully good not to be late for everything for once. Thank you again, B."

"Still doing my job, Boss. To what do I owe this early pleasure?"

"B, listen. I know you're off the clock, technically, but I was wondering if we could squeeze something into this morning's schedule."

As ever, Edward sounds bashful and unsure but I'm incredibly proud of what he just said. It just goes to show that, in one week, he's learned how to check his calendar on his blackberry. He's right, we do have time to squeeze something in this morning, since we're not due anywhere till 11.00.

"I kept it clear in case you wanted to regroup a bit before the casting call."

"Oh. That." He sounds hesitant.

"Boss, what's up? Are you getting cold feet?" I joke, wondering what's up with him to have him so confused.

"No…I just…Would you help me read through my lines before I go in? Please?"

"Of course, Edward. It's not like you have to ask, Boss. That's what I'm here for, you know that." I answer, relieved that nothing major seems to be wrong with him. He still sounds hesitant and nervous, though. Bad omen.

Edward sighs over the receiver. I know the signs by now. When he does that, he's raking his hands through his hair and he's nervous, because he thinks he's going to say something I probably won't like. Fortunately for both of us, so far our criteria haven't really matched. In most cases, Edward panics for trifles and runs every little thing past me, fearing he'll mess things up or, worse, that he's asking me something I'll never want to do, not in a thousand years.

"Thanks, B. That means a lot to me, though it's not the reason I'm ruining your breakfast."

"Spit it out, Boss. I'm comfortably sitting at the deck table. Hit me," I answer, now genuinely intrigued, as I'm starting to wonder whether he'll ever get to the point.

"What I wanted to ask was…Well, I looked into all the housing options. I forced you to visit them all with me. But there's this idea that's been nagging at me and… ?"

He spits it out in one frantic breath, so fast that I can't catch a syllable. I can't help snickering, even if I shouldn't. Speech-impaired Edward usually equals over-the-top nervous Edward.

"Edward, you're supposed to be an actor. I'm sure you can deliver a line a little better than that. Could you please try and do that for me, so that I can understand what you want me to do?"

Another laboured breath. My morning mug of Earl Grey magically appears in front of me. Thank God for thoughtful brothers.

"Right, take two. Do you think we could visit the house next to yours? Is it still available?"

I freeze in place and manage, out of sheer luck, not to drop my blackberry. For once, Edward was right to be nervous. I have been neglecting this option (quite unprofessionally, I must admit) for a number of well-known reasons. Edward must have been thinking along the same lines, if he's waited so long before broaching the subject.

"B, I know what you must be thinking. I won't burden you with my presence. I won't even come over to see Emmett but please, let me just see it. If I don't like it, I'll pick something else. Promise," he spits out again, breathlessly, before I can put a word in edgewise.

He has given the matter some serious thought and, after all, it's his house. I can't dictate where he should or shouldn't live.

"Edward, don't fret. Let me just give Kate and Garrett a call to see if we can pop in at about 9ish. Does that suit you, Boss?"

"Sure it does, B. You rule my time, you should know that. Will I get a calendar invite?"

He jokes, clearly quite smug as he shows off that he's finally got the hang of some of my basic time management methods.

"Wow, does this mean that the wonders of synchronised calendars are finally growing on you?"

"A little more respect for the Boss, there. But yes, they actually are. So?"

I shake my head. This guy sometimes is so clueless that he can't even take the credit for the incredible progress he's made in barely a week.

"You'll get the calendar invite. If that doesn't work, I'll pick you up with Ben as planned and we'll head to the casting call."

"Goodie. See you later, B."

"See you later, Boss."

Emmett raises an eyebrow from behind his favourite magazine.

"Dependent much? That guy is worse than Jasper, BeeBee."

I laugh outright at Em's skewed assessment of the situation. Edward can't compete with Jasper, not even on a bad day.

"Em, these two guys are polar opposites. Jasper is an anal-retentive, perfectionistic, competitive, megalomaniacal and neurotic lawyer. Edward is a disorganised, erratic, nervous, perfectionistic, self-deprecating and clueless actor. I see no similarities so far, except in their crazy-ass schedules and working hours."

"Sure, sure." He mutters, putting a serious dent in his second donut. It's a great thing he gets to burn off all those calories.

"Em, is Kate's house still up for lease?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"Yes, BeeBee. Are you fed up with me? Wanna move out?"

"No, but Edward wants to check it out. I'll see if we can drop by later this morning."

Emmett nods pensively, pointing his half-eaten donut at me.

"Are you going to bring work home, Hot Stuff?"

Look who's talking, and this coming from the prick who invited my boss over for dinner on my first day of work.

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer, Emmett. Edward wants to see it, and I'm doing my boss's bidding," I answer, with a tone that brooks no rebuttals.

As it turns out, Kate is actually home and thrilled to see a potential tenant. More specifically, she is thrilled that the potential tenant is none other than Edward Cullen.

Edward rides over and we visit the house together. I make myself scarce and let Kate do the honours. After all, I already know this house and I don't want to influence Edward's opinion in any way. I follow them silently, taking some notes based on Edward's questions and reactions to the various rooms. My assumed list of 'pros' is greatly outnumbering the 'cons'.

Before long, we're back in the hall and Edward unleashes his full charm on poor Kate. Not only is he always a flawless gentleman, he also never realises the true effect he has on the fair sex. By the time I say goodbye to Kate myself, she is almost swooning. I mouth an '_I'll let you know_' and rush out of the house with Edward in tow.

"Why are we running away?" Edward asks. "Didn't you like it?"

"I don't have to like it, you do. But to answer your question… We're running away because I want to give poor Kate some recovery time."

"Recovery time?"

Meet Edward 'the King of Clueless' Cullen. Ang was right. The guy really has no idea.

"Edward, one more crooked smile and she'd faint on me. She'd probably waive the rent, and afterwards turn the house into a museum, complete with '_the bed Edward Cullen slept in_'."

Edward is bending over with laughter on his seat in the limo. "Seriously? That's creepy, maybe I shouldn't take it. What do you think?" he ends, on a more serious note.

"I was only having some fun at her expense, Edward. Didn't you really see what effect you had on her?"

Edward scowls. "That's not what I meant, B. I want to know what you think about the house."

I fish out my list of pros and cons. I try to stay professional and give Edward a run-down of the pros. He nods and then looks me straight in the eye.

"These are all the reasons why I should take it, and they are, as always, impeccable reasons, backed by common sense and other valuable considerations. But I want to know how you feel about it."

I steel myself for an answer that will, no doubt, come back to bite me in the ass.

"I think you should go with your guts, I told you at the outset," I say, my voice low, my eyes struggling, and failing, to wander away from his gaze.

Edward leans towards me, his elbows on his knees and his chin propped up against his hands. His hair, in constant trademark disarray, shadows his green eyes.

"B, what should my guts tell me? Because right now they are telling me a million different things," he's almost whispering, his velvet voice touching me like a caress. Is it my imagination? Is he really just talking about the house?

What is this guy trying to do to me? Is he even trying, or is it just me, over-reading and overanalysing his behaviour? I file this away for later scrutiny, when I'll have another Earl Grey to boost my confidence.

He taps on the divider, his gaze never leaving mine. "Ben, could you please stop at Starbucks for Miss Swan's mug of tea?"

I force myself to look away from him, tearing my eyes away from his emerald depths. Is he trying to butter me up and bribe me with my favourite tea, or is he just trying to be nice to me for the sake of it? When will I be able to stop second-guessing myself? When will I be rid of Jake's curse, that forces me to uncover hidden agendas behind everyone's actions?

"Bella, please. Look at me, this is making me nervous."

I'm a bitch. I'm a horrible person. Edward's already on edge because of the casting call and I'm adding to his anxiety with my silly behaviour. I look up and my eyes meet his keen gaze once again.

"That's better. B, what should my guts tell me?" Velvet caresses, again. Damn him.

"Fuck everything else, Edward. If it feels even remotely like home, take it."

Edward's eyes light up and go as wide as saucers. "B, is this really, truly what you think?"

I realise that mean it. Screw the rest, this guy needs some place to call home among all this craziness. That's what Edward needs, and that's what Edward should get.

"Yes, Edward. Screw the rest, we'll deal with it."

He nods, just as the car skids to a stop. We're finally at the casting call. Ben accompanies us to the green room, where all the other candidates are waiting in line.

Ang says it's just a formality, and that the role is Edward's anyway, because the director was keen on having him on board for this project. Edward and I don't totally believe her, for our own personal reasons. I don't want to jinx this and give Edward any false hopes, on the other hand, Edward is such a perfectionist that he feels he must prove himself to get this role. He wants to earn things, just like everyone else, and this shows me again how much of a hard worker he is.

We go through his lines together. He delivers them with consummated ease, pacing the room and resisting the urge to run his hands through his mane. I stand up to go get him his coffee.

"B, where do you think you're going?" he scowls.

"To get your caffeine fix, Boss." He stops me, grabbing my elbow.

"No, leave it. No coffee. I'd rather be incoherent than a babbling idiot. I'll make do."

"As you wish, Boss."

I return to the script in my hands and my legal training kicks in, captured by a minor syntax flaw. My hand automatically reaches for my reading glasses and my fountain pen, but then I catch myself and resist the urge to make the correction.

Edward notices and comments. "Professor Swan, what's wrong?"

I scrunch up my eyebrows, highly diverted. "I'm no professor, Boss. Don't mock me."

"Maybe, and maybe not. But you look like one with your specs, and ready to wield your fountain pen like a broadsword," he jokes, with a childish smile that reaches his greenish eyes.

I raise an eyebrow. Clueless my ass, Edward's even too perceptive sometimes.

"Oh, come on, B. I can tell you're itching to correct something. What's wrong with this script?"

I try to back-pedal, fully aware that he'll weasel it out of me, eventually.

"Boss, this isn't a contract, and it's not my place to…" I stammer. I really don't want to do this.

He sits down beside me and follows my gaze to the guilty line. "B, I've learned to trust your instincts. Just tell me what you think and screw the rest."

I smile. I knew he'd use those same words against me. My fountain pen points to the bit that doesn't work.

"It's a silly thing…but it would flow a lot better like this…" I say, showing Edward the tiny revision on my own copy. He nods.

"I knew there was something wrong with this line. I couldn't get the rhythm right. Thanks, B. You're awesome," he says, his smile lighting up his glorious features again.

"Anytime, Boss."

The casting director glances our way. It's Edward's turn. I touch his elbow to get his attention.

"Mr. Cullen? Your turn to go in, I believe," I say, my voice professional and level.

He smiles and slips back into our self-imposed public personas. "Thank you, Miss Swan. I'll see you later."

"Of course, Mr. Cullen." I reply, as I watch him saunter after the casting director and into the 'examination' room.

It feels like going through finals at Oxford all over again, except I'm not the one sitting, this time. The nervousness does not dissipate one bit, though.

Almost two hours later, a triumphant Edward meets me in the foyer of the studios as I'm talking to one of the production assistants, ironing out some minor details of the pre-production stint for Edward's next movie.

"Miss Swan, are we ready to go?" he asks, his voice unwavering, but with an unmistakable excited glint in his eyes.

"Sure, Mr. Cullen. Judith and I can talk later."

"But are you nearly finished?" he prods, now quite unable to rein in his enthusiasm. Something is definitely up.

I quickly wrap up my conversation with Judith and return my attention to Edward.

"I'm all done, Mr. Cullen."

He nods and ushers me to our car. As soon as Ben closes the door on us, Edward explodes.

"We're going to celebrate, B. And you can't say no. We've got plenty of reasons to."

He's beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Don't you want my news, too?"

He skids to a stop, slightly crestfallen.

"I'm sorry, B. Is it important?"

"I'm afraid it is, but it will only take a minute. Then we can celebrate all you want," I answer, smiling.

He composes himself, reverting back to work mode. Concentrated, focussed Edward is really a sight to behold, you can almost hear the wheels turning in his brain.

"I have both good and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Bad news first, B. I can take anything today." I chuckle, his enthusiasm is contagious.

"You won't be able to fly home until December 22. That means you'll only arrive in London two days before Christmas. On the upside…"

"Hm, I'll have to deal with a pissed Alice. Give me the upside, please."

"On the upside, production has been rearranged a bit, and guys have realised that they don't need to drag the whole cast and crew to Vancouver just yet. They can do everything in LA. Which means…"

He brightens up once again. "We don't have to go to Vancouver, do we?"

"Exactly! We'll need to be there by mid-February only."

He rubs his eyes, still quite stunned. "Wow, I can't believe this. I get a whole month with my family. And you get a whole month of holidays."

"Wrong answer, Boss. I'll have to work anyway, but that's nothing you need to worry about."

He scoffs, evidently displeased. "Didn't you mention celebrations, Boss? Care to enlighten me?"

His mood changes again completely, and Christmas morning Edward is back in full force. "Right. Well, I most certainly got the role! The director told me right away. He's going to email the contract to Angela and the production schedule to us."

I drop all pretence of distance and clasp his hands in mine. "You did? I'm so proud of you, Edward! I really am. I knew you'd blow them away."

* * *

Before I pimp out the coolest fics out there, if you're not familiar with the tune, here's a link to "Goodnight And Go" by Imogen Heap. Terrific song, with a great atmosphere. http: / www (dot) youtube (dot) com / watch?v=61QNdyc7plE

**PIMP MY FIC CORNER**

The ones that make me Drop Everything, There's An Update this week are:

**FRONTLINE by MissAlex**, of RebelWard Fame. What's hotter than Edward following in the footsteps of Jimmy Dean? Easy, Edward Cullen is a mysterious, wealthy CEO, who always gets what he wants. Isabella Swan is a headstrong Nurse at Manhattan Memorial Hospital. Edward arrives at her ER one night and their steamy chance encounter changes both of their lives forever. Check this one out, it'll keep you on your toes... http: / www (dot) fanfiction (dot) net /s / 6020448/1

**MILLION DOLLAR BABY, by clpsuperstar**. When Renee is diagnosed with a terminal illness, Isabella makes the ultimate sacrifice. Selling herself to the highest bidder to do with her as they please may just prove to be more than she bargained for. This will keep you up at night, waiting for updates.. http: / www (dot) fanfiction (dot) net /s / 5983247/1


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Decisions, decisions...Cluelessward makes a lot of decisions in this chapter. Some good, some bad, one catastrophic...Ready to hold his hand?

As usual, thank you to Eifeltwr and Black Hale for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. PeepToe is on temporary leave for this chapter - the busy girl is working on a merger with Jasper.

Thank you to Lory and Debbie for still holding my hand. Are we counting down the days till our London trip?

Shout outs for this week: Kimbo and Black Hale for a totally mindless, but utterly funny videochat last night, Eifeltwr for being there at all times, regardless of time zones and Mina for the Ted Sr p0rn this week. Ladies, you know why I keep you around. For the rest, let's always blame Cedric.

CluelessWard thanks, from the bottom of his forgetful heart, his faithful and regular readers and reviewers - you know who you are, because, as usual he doesn't. He still can't find B's list...And of course, thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

Pimp My Fic Corner at the bottom...

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 12**

_Edward_

"_Fuck everything else. If it remotely feels like home, take it."_

"_Screw the rest, we'll deal with it."_

"_I'm so proud of you, Edward."_

How can a bloke's life change with three sentences? I'm not yet sure about how, but I know that mine has.

Bella's done it again. She's supporting me, boosting my confidence, pushing me to do better…just by being there. And the magic of it is that it's all effortless to her, it's a given, because she can't help being like this, it's in her nature.

I grip her hands tighter, before I go on with my celebration speech, my voice cracking up with an emotion I can't contain.

"_You_ blew them away, B. I mentioned your suggested change of the script to the director, and he loved it. He said it proved how much I'd interiorised this role, how much I'd felt it ass mine, and so on and so forth…"

She throws me a wicked glance. "Edward Anthony Cullen, did you really do that?"

Uh-oh. She's unleashed my middle name like a curse. How does she even know it?

"I know your middle name because it's part of my job. I know your middle name, your birthday, your height, weight, tux size, shoes size, social security number, credit card number, passport expiry date and I could recite it like an endless mantra… Did you really spit that out to the director? The guy must hate me now."

She blurts this out in one long, irritated gush that ends on a shy, uneasy note. She's doubting herself and I won't have it. And she can read my mind, or just knows me too well.

_Both, Cullen, both. Though you wished the knowledge was biblical._

"No, he doesn't. He thinks I corrected it. Sorry for misappropriating your work, B. He loved it, by the way. He said the style was flawless. How did you learn to write like that?"

She shrugs and I know I'm treading dangerous ground.

"Professional hazard, Edward. Lawyers do work with a lot of written material. I was in charge of all that."

I'm stunned. My girl's talents are endless, but I can also tell that she's holding out on me.

_Oh, and that's right, Cullen. You just called her 'my girl'._

"You were Jasper's ghost writer?"

"In a way. So you see, I'm used to this." She means that Jasper got the credit for her genius, just as I did back there. I'm a jerk, robbing her of her glory.

"That's not fair. I'll go tell the director…"

She drops my hands in disdain, I regret my words instantly.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Edward. We're a team, you're not misappropriating anything. Please tell me you won't talk to the director?"

I give in like a spineless git, because I can't deny her anything.

"There's something else that we need to celebrate." She nods and gestures for me to elaborate.

"I've decided. I've weighed out the pros and cons, I've had a pep talk with my confused gut, and I'll take the house in Venice Beach."

I'm afraid of her reaction, but she surprises me again. "Brilliant, Kate will have her museum, after all. Wonder if I can get a little something for myself out of this."

Wow. I expected a cold shoulder, but her creepy irony must be her own way of coping with this.

"Are you happy with this, B?" If she's not happy, I won't take it, cost what it may.

"I'm happy if you are, Edward." And from the look in her eyes, I can tell that she means it.

"Hell, we're going to be neighbours now, B."

She snorts. "As long as I'm not Kylie…"

I shake my head and laugh with her. "Do I look like Jason to you?"

That's another thing I love about her. When you least expect it, she'll quote something so characteristically British that I can't help feeling at home.

"We have another reason to celebrate, B," I add, with a devilish grin.

"I'd think the other two were enough, Boss."

I grip her hands again, I need to feel her close to me right now.

_Closer, Cullen. You want her closer still._

"They may be, but this is where you can't say no." My grin doesn't falter.

"Alright, it looks like I'm trapped. Fire away."

My thumbs are engaged in their new favourite pastime, aka running circles on the back of Bella's hands. Her skin is flawless and feels like silk under my touch. I wonder if she's not put off by the rough pads on my fingers. I am, after all, a musician as well, and she's read this on my skin before I could even tell her about it.

_You'd like her to do other things to your skin, Cullen._

"Right. It's been one week since we started working together. It's been an amazing week, B. I turned up on time to all my commitments. I didn't bail out of anything. I survived three press junkets and I even endured a photo shoot with a smile on my face. I've nailed this casting call, and it's all because you were here, because you helped me not to topple this boat again. It's cause enough for a celebration in my book."

She disentangles her fingers from mine. "You would have done that anyway without me, Edward."

I snatch her hands back. "How, B? Ang was ready to drop me and you were meant to be my punishment. Little did she know, she was doing me a favour. Would you do me the honour of going out to lunch with me, Miss Swan?"

I wonder if what she calls my 'charm' works on her as well. I pray that it does, because I won't take no for an answer. She hesitates, then grips my hands tighter.

"This really means a lot to you, doesn't it, Edward?" she whispers.

"It does, B. Please let me do this for you."

"Then I'd be delighted, Mr. Cullen, to have lunch with you today."

I flash her a blinding smile and, without thinking, gather up her hands to my lips and kiss them. She rewards my recklessness with one of those cute blushes.

_You could die a happy man now, Cullen. Admit it._

I tap on the divider and call out to Ben. "Ben, please drive straight to Morton's. We have reservations in 30 minutes."

"Cocky much, Edward?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope, my assistant taught me to be always prepared."

"She must know you very well," she quips, flashing me her own enticing version of a devilish grin.

"Better than anyone, B. And I love it."

_There, Cullen. Let's see where this one takes you._

She blushes again.

The rest of the ride to the restaurant is filled with animated talk about our goings-on in the weeks up to Christmas. Bella knows very little about the movie industry and she grills me on all the aspects that she's not familiar with. She listens to me with rapt attention and her questions are smart and very insightful. She wants to know absolutely everything.

"What does this pre-production thingy entail, exactly?" I love the fact that she is surgically precise with her legal jargon, but can get away with saying '_thingy_' when talking about movies.

"Well, they check out everything they might need for visual effects, they run through story boards, discuss production design and the like. It's a lengthy and painstaking process, once the cameras are rolling, you can't afford to waste time and money. Most of everything is discussed and decided on beforehand."

She's not physically taking notes, but her brain is working at full steam. We're now at the restaurant, some place around Beverly Hills that I've chosen because it's relatively close to Ang's office and it's pretty businesslike. I don't want Bella to think that I've trapped her into going on a date with me.

_You want to take her, Cullen, and you want her to know it's a date._

"It all seems to me like it involves the director and the rest of the crew, more than anyone else. Where does the cast come in?"

Attentive and to the point. I've never been asked so many meaningful questions about my job, but I revel in talking to Bella. I want her to know what I do.

"Well, the poor actors like yours truly get manhandled by the costume designers, till they get the right size and the right look for every scene."

"I bet you love that," she jokes. God, this woman knows me so well. I absently scratch the back of my head.

"Well, I like the period clothes, though they make you walk all weird…"

She looks at me over her glass. I wanted to order some white wine to go with our seafood, but apparently it gives Bella a nasty headache. Only soda water for my girl.

"I bet you look dashing in those dapper period clothes."

"Quit mocking me, Miss Swan! It's not fair to make fun of other people's misfortunes…"

She smiles fondly at me. "I wasn't mocking you, I really think you'd look the part, with your figure. Though I bet you make those seamstresses' lives miserable."

She's got me, again. "What can I say? I have no patience for that…"

"What else?" She asks again.

"What else, what?" I echo. I got lost in her eyes for a second and I can't remember what I was saying.

"Pre-production, Mr. Cullen?" I slap my forehead.

"Yeah, that. Then there's make up and hair styling. They try out the different styles until they get them right."

"Something tells me you're not a big fan of pre-production."

I smile, and I can feel it reach my eyes. "Actually, I like the whole research side of it. It's awesome. It's the manhandling I can't stomach. What I love most are the read-throughs, though."

"I thought so. I guess you can tell if it's going to work out or not, can't you?" she adds, her gaze fixed on me, her voice level. She's interested and focused, she's in work mode as if we were preparing for the Academy Awards.

"Me? Not so much, but the director does. And you surely get to size up your cast mates, whether you can get on with them or not…"

Our lunch hour passes like this, talking, bantering back and forth, and I learn a lot of little things about Bella. She doesn't like tomatoes with her salad, she is crazy about lobster, she drinks an awful lot of water, and she only eats steak if Em grills it. After lunch, she orders an espresso, only after she's made sure they have her preferred brand and know how to brew it. Damn, she's picky.

_High maintenance, Cullen. It's called high maintenance._

"Yes, I know I'm horribly picky but…I got into the habit of drinking espresso whenever I go see my mom, and…" she trails off, her eyebrow quirked in an apologetic grimace.

So that's where she was going, on that flight to Milan. She was visiting her mum.

"Your mum lives in Italy?"

"Yes, she works in Milan." She answers with a bright, affectionate smile.

"Alice does, too." I blurt out. Idiot – she talks to Alice on an almost daily basis. Hell, she talks to Alice more than I do, I guess she knows by now.

"Yes, Edward, I know. That reminds me, I'll have to email her your flight details later."

She adds this as an afterthought, as if she wanted a handy excuse to change the subject.

It's celebration day, and I tell myself '_screw it_'. I want to push my luck, even if I'll probably regret it.

"B, listen. There's something I wanted to say…but…I know I'm overstepping my bounds."

She flinches slightly, closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. I go on, my voice hesitant and low. I'm itching to take her hand, but we're in public.

"About what happened last week… About our talk on the beach… Are you alright? Is everything alright?"

She looks away from me. "Edward, I know you mean well but…I can't…I'm not…"

Her voice quivers, her hands are trembling and she is pale. Bollocks. I knew I'd best keep my trap shut.

She heaves a laboured sigh. "I'm just not…ready to talk about it and…we're having a great day…please…"

She means '_please don't ruin it_'. Little does she know that there's no point to the great day if she's upset.

"B, please look at me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for bringing that up."

She nods, still silent.

"B, I just want you to know that I'm here, for you, whenever you need me."

"I know, Edward. Thank you…I just…don't…can't…" she stutters, her eyes uneasy.

"It's ok, Bella. Leave it. Don't worry. I'm not going to pester you again on this."

I'm trying to back-pedal, my voice shamefully pleading her not to run for the hills.

She drains her glass dry and then seemingly reverts back to her normal self. We're getting ready to leave the restaurant, when the maitre d' approaches us.

"Mr. Cullen, you may want to leave from the back door. I am told that there are photographers out front."

I huff. This is getting old. Now those bastards are intruding on my lunch with Bella.

_Final blow, Cullen. You been digging your own grave._

I dismiss the maitre d' and turn to look at Bella. She's still pale.

"B, what do you want to do? We escape out the back door, or we face the music?"

"They'll take pictures of us, Edward. I don't know if Ang is going to be ok with this."

She's worried. I can tell she's nervous about the paps. This is new to her, of course, and I want everything to be her choice. I don't want to force her into anything.

"It's a daily professional hazard for me, Bella. It happens all the time."

I know full well it's not normal to her, to be hounded like this, but it's becoming fucking normal to me.

"But they're gonna have a field day with this, they don't know who I am and they might speculate all sorts of crap."

She's panicking. I need to get her out of here soon.

"Let them speculate all they want. We know the truth," I retort, my tone final and bordering on angry. I surely don't need the paps on top of my own fuck-ups.

An awkward silence falls. Bella's eyes are restless, roaming all over the room, never landing on my face. She's debating something in her head. After a few, excruciating minutes, she finally says.

"Right. Let's feed them this time, and maybe this will get them off our backs."

Wishful thinking, on B's part, but I am not going to contradict her now.

"Front door, Miss Swan?"

"Front door, Mr. Cullen," she confirms, resolute and business-like.

I take her hand and guide her to the exit, only to release her, albeit reluctantly, as soon as we get to the front door. No use in giving the reporters any freebies.

"I got your back, B, don't worry." I whisper in her ear as we are blinded by flashes. I am slightly pissed off, because they are taking pics of my Bella. I dragged her into this madness. I should have gone through the back door, without even asking her.

The paps call out to us. "Who's the hottie, Mr. Cullen?" "Smile for us, Edward!"

Bella is forced to lean into me and I circle her waist with my arm to guide her through the throng of scumbags. I can't even enjoy the feel of her slight form moulded to my side, because I need to get her out of here. Luckily, Ben and Eric are waiting for us round the corner. The mayhem's gone and Bella collapses on to the side of the limo.

"God, I never expected it to be like this. It's over, isn't it?"

"Yes, B. It is. Maybe we should have gone out back, after all."

She shakes her head. "No, they'd have gotten to us anyway. Better get rid of this right away. It had to happen, sooner or later."

How can she panic one second and be so rational the next? Thank God we're through it, for now.

"Are you really ok, B?" My voice is laced with concern.

She squares her shoulders and then answers. "Yes, I think. I was just unprepared. I'll need to call Ang, by the way. Give her some advance warning."

She's already strategising away on how to deal with this. Wow. I still feel like punching a wall, and I get this on a daily basis.

"Oh, I bet she has all sorts of ready-made answers to any and all questions she'll be getting."

She looks suspicious, her eyes narrowed to slits.

"What do you mean?" She asks, her voice as cold as if it could cut glass.

"There's a drill for cases like this, B. I thought you knew."

Ang ingrained this into me when I started. There's a whole array of 'what to do if' cases; for each occurrence, there's a drill. Bella is still looking suspicious, though.

"As in, Edward?"

"As in, I wouldn't be the first one pegged by the press with shagging his assistant."

An eerie, cold and uncomfortable silence falls. Bella is seething and she is looking at me as if I was trash. I feel worse than trash, actually.

"You shouldn't have said that, Mr. Cullen."

She steps away from the car as I try to pull her back close to me. "Bella, please…"

She pries my arm away in disgust. "Get your hands off me, Mr. Cullen. I have other commitments this afternoon. Ben will drive you wherever you need to go."

With these professional and detached words, she disappears from view and into a nearby cab.

I'm an idiot. I have no other words to describe my useless self, because with one single misspoken joke I've finally managed to fuck up a glorious day.

And now Bella's walked out on me. Will she ever walk back?

_BCG's POV_

"_I wouldn't be the first one pegged by the press with shagging his assistant."_

His light-hearted words are still ringing through my ears on a loop, stinging my wounded pride more and more each time.

I was so rational for about five minutes, thinking I had gone through this little crisis unscathed, and then Edward's words sent me reeling again.

I snapped, and I left. I couldn't deal with it then, and I can't deal with it now.

This is why I left him stranded there with Ben and retreated to the familiar sanctuary of White Devlin & Hale's offices.

Since I entrusted them with the care of Edward's taxes and accounting, I need to swing by anyway, day in and day out. It's a great excuse for me to pop in, say hello to everyone and, if the time difference allows it, exploit the videoconference facilities to talk to Jasper.

Right now, I'm particularly glad that there's some tax filing to be dealt with, because a chat with Jasper is exactly what I need.

I've dropped him an email on my way here and, by some miracle, he's still in the office, he's free and he can't wait to talk to me.

Why don't I call my BFF instead? Because Rosalie's world is black and white only. There are no grey areas for her, there are no '_yes but_'. She would tell me to fess up and go with my guts (I'm beginning to hate that phrase).

Jasper, on the other hand, is a neurotic, overanalysing freak like me. Neurotics need to stick together, because there's no way in hell a normal person could understand what Emmett calls '_the convoluted workings of their minds_'.

Once I sort out the umpteenth filing needed to finalise Edward's status as a non-resident taxpayer, I literally run to my allotted video conference room.

Jasper is already there on the screen, waiting for me, while he's reading through a bulky contract, folders and other printouts strewn all over his desk, its usual obsessive-compulsive order gone. His curly blond hair is untamed and he's rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbow. His tie is nowhere to be seen.

It is 3pm in LA, which means it's 11pm in London. The guy has had a day from hell and the state of his desk confirms it. Knowing him, he's been working non-stop since 5am this morning, and he's more than entitled to look a little unkempt. I am hugely thankful that he's taking the time to step in as my own personal shrink, even if he's got a lot on his plate already.

"Jazz? Track changes won't disappear by magic, you know?" I say, teasingly, to pry his attention away from his papers.

"BeeBee? How are you? What's up?" His reply sounds anxious.

No need to state my case, because he's on to me already.

"I'm a mess, Jazz. I made a mess, and I fucked up."

Jazz scratches his forehead with his pencil. Time out of mind, Jasper's been using the same double-end red-blue pencils. No highlighters for Jazz, only these old-fashioned, professor-like writing implements. He's picky, true, but I guess it takes one to know one.

"I'm a lawyer, Bella. Define fucked-up, please. I need evidence, motives, mitigating circumstances, the works…"

I snort. "You're a corporate lawyer, Jasper Hale, and you're not a barrister. The only mitigating circumstances you deal with are the ones you see on CSI, Genius."

"Touché, Madame. You're too smart for your own good, but you won't sidetrack me with your ruthless skills. What the heck happened? Abridged version, please. I haven't eaten in 36 hours and I'd love to rectify that soon," he answers playfully, pointing his pencil at me through the screen.

I nod and steel myself, and just like that, I unleash my word vomit on Jasper, regaling him with a faithful account of today's events.

"So, BeeBee, let me get this straight. You've walked out on your boss, because he joked about something that's not true?" he comments, his voice neutral.

"Correct, Genius."

"And you're saying that there might be pics of the two of you together on the gossip sites?"

"Correct, Genius."

"As you say, BeeBee, I'm no criminal lawyer, but there's no case here," he concludes, still neutral.

I am more than a little miffed, with a side dish of growing irritation. I expected support, and he's blowing me off. Traitor.

"No case? How could he say that to me?"

"BeeBee, the way I see it, he was trying to defuse the tension. Poor chap picked the wrong joke, with the wrong girl, but cut him some slack…"

"Cut him some slack? Honestly?"

He fiddles with his monitor. "Is there an echo? Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"

"Because you make no sense to me, Genius."

"Do I? Then I know why, BeeBee, but you won't like this," he counters, his eyebrows sternly furrowing.

I mimic brandishing a highlighter at him. "I have my lightsaber, Jedi. Hit me."

He waves his hand in a '_you asked for it_' gesture.

"Truth hurts, and reality bites."

"Ditch the epigrams, Genius. This isn't Dead Poets Society."

"BeeBee, it all stings because somehow you do feel guilty about it, you feel guilty because you do want to shag your boss. There, I said it."

He says this with the same level tone he uses with clients who ask for unfeasible things on impossible deadlines.

I'm sorely tempted to disconnect the videocall but then I freeze in place. I unceremoniously drop the highlighter onto the desk. I hide my face in my hands, banging my head on the desk multiple times. Jasper is right.

"BeeBee, don't misuse corporate property. Talk to me instead." He sounds concerned again.

I can't move. I can't talk. I am still paralysed by the Jasper-induced epiphany.

"BeeBee, are you alive?"

My head slightly bobs on the desk. Jazz is not happy with that, though.

"I need proof positive. Recite the Magna Charta to me, 1215 text."

"_Johannes del gracia rex Anglie, dominus Hibernie, dux Normannie, Aquitannie et comes Andegravie, archiepiscopis, episcopis, abbatibus, comitibus, baronibus, justiciariis, forestariis, vicecomitibus, prepositis, ministris et omnibus ballivis et ﬁdelibus suis salutem…_" I recite, by sheer rote, with the same hollow voice I'd use to enumerate my grocery shopping list.

"Blimey, girl, the Latin text? You must be alive. Talk to me, for heaven's sake," he insists, now bordering on anxious.

Jasper is the only one who can understand me right now, but this involves a serious amount of mindfuck and I really hope he can keep up with my ramblings.

"Jazz, I don't want to be _that_ girl…"

"BeeBee, define '_that_' for me, please. Otherwise I'll have to pretend I don't understand where this is going."

"I don't want to be the girl that…"

"Shags the boss? Sleeps her way to the top?" he suggests, completing my thoughts.

I nod against the desk, still unable to face Jasper. I am pretty disgusted with myself, and pretty conflicted with my feelings.

"BeeBee, look at me, please. I feel pretty moronic, talking to a moving desk."

I force my head to move upwards and straighten my hair. Jasper is looking at the webcam, _ergo_ at me, with concern etched all over his features. I feel shitty – he hasn't eaten in 36 hours and I'm forcing him to sort out my problems, from overseas, via videoconference.

"That's better, BeeBee. Where were we?" He adds, and it's obviously for dramatic effect. He remembers perfectly well what he was saying. He just wants me to acknowledge that he's right.

"At the '_shag my boss_' stage, Genius."

He's deftly twirling his double-end pencil between his index and middle finger.

"Do you? Have you?" he quips, half-jokingly.

"Shagged the boss? Hell, no, Jasper!"

"But do you want to? What is this guy like? He must be something else…" he says, with an intrigued glint in his eyes.

"Jasper? I was under the impression that this was a serious conversation."

I'm perfectly aware that I sound over-dramatic, but this is my own pity party and I set the rules, and the tone.

"It is. If you want to shag this guy, after the AssJake fiasco, he must be something else. Tell me about it. I'm feeling rather disappointed, though, and a bit jealous."

"Why?" That's my knee-jerk reaction to Jasper's attempts at sidetracking my emo ramblings.

"Because you never wanted to shag me. My monumental ego is wounded."

I can't help but chuckle. Jasper is always good at cheering me up.

"Well, if that's any consolation, the whole staff of WDH in London believed that I was."

"Shagging me? Why?" Now he's genuinely shocked.

"Because we were friends. Because I did everything for you. Because I got top bonuses. Because I was Russ's golfing partner. Do I need to list other reasons?"

"But that's preposterous! I have never heard anything about this, why?" He definitely didn't see this one coming.

Jasper's a lawyer, worse, he's a partner, and this kind of gossip was kept well below his radar. Coffee room talk has very selected audiences, especially if you're the target of this kind of assumptions. I never contested any of them, it would have been worse, and it would have made my working life a living hell.

"Because that's not the kind of chit-chat that gets passed on to the partners. Just so you know."

His expression now turns serious. He gets closer to the webcam, as if he could physically be closer to me.

"BeeBee, you could never be that girl, if that's what you're worried about."

"What the heck am I going to do, Jazz? A part of me wants to run like hell, and the other wants to stay and…"

"Shag the boss?"

"Will you just stop wording it like this? It's not…"

"He must really be something else. I'll have to grill Russ about him, talk to his dad."

Jasper's trying to cheer me up, and he is mostly succeeding, but I don't really want things to get more awkward than they need to be.

"Jasper Hale, you will do nothing of the sort. Spare me the embarrassment, please."

His expression returns serious and his hazel eyes are trying to examine my face from the webcam. Not easy for an average person, but child's play for Jasper. He's damn perceptive, and can read my moods like ratings from Fitch.

"BeeBee, seriously, what are you going to do about this?"

I heave a laboured breath. It's time to don the big girl panties, I'm done with running away.

"I'll face the music, Jasper, the only way I know," I voice my mission statement without faltering.

"Which is, according to the latest edition of the Bella Swan Interpretation Guidelines, to give your 150% on the job, care about everything as if it was your baby, and follow Scarlet O'Hara's rule, right?"

I look at him with my best puzzled expression. "Which would be, Jazz?"

"Remember Scarlet O'Hara, and a bit of Southern wisdom. She said '_I'll deal with it tomorrow_'. Deal with things one day at a time, Bella. Don't let them overwhelm you."

"Thank you, Jazz. For all this, I mean."

"BeeBee, you don't have to thank me. I'd fly out and kick your ass, if I could. I guess we have to make do with technology. OK, just to err on the safe side, and to wrap up our pep talk, what are you going to do now?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, regrouping my ideas in my head. I need to call Angela and deal with this mess. I need to find Edward and explain.

"I will stay, and deal with this one day at a time. Good advice."

"Damn straight, BeeBee. What about your boss?" He never gives up. At least, he no longer sounds teasing.

That's harder to figure out. I've neglected my wishes for a long time, drifting with the tide, and keeping my dreams at bay to settle only for realistic achievements, the ones that would not find me disappointed and broken. I followed that yellow brick road for a few years, and it led me to a job I loved, but for which I had, funnily enough, no calling in the first place, and to a conventional relationship, that was everything you could wish on the outside, but left me a broken-hearted and barren wasteland on the inside.

"You know what, Jazz?" I say, resolutely. I've finally made up my mind. Or not.

"Tell me, BeeBee. I'm all ears."

"I don't know. Guess only time will tell."

"That's my girl. Go kill a bunch of paparazzi for me."

* * *

**PIMP MY FIC CORNER:**

Two stories that got me completely hooked right away:

**Your voice was all I heard by Twimamma:** Bella is hiding from the same past that Edward can't forget. Soul mates lost.

Incredible Linkin Park lyrics dot this one labour of love, with a tremendously brave Bella that fiercely protects her kid through a series of...let's call them unfortunate events. Link: http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/s/5888382/1/Your_Voice_Was_All_I_Heard

**Where the Sidewalk Ends by Bronzehairedgirl620: **Some men aren't looking for anything logical. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn." These were the inmates of Alcatraz. But Edward Masen, wrongly accused, might just dare to defy it all.

What were Forks and Alcatraz like in 1941? Let's visit with this Bella who moves straight out of New Hampshire to follow her father, the newly appointed Chief of Police, who finds himself caught up in a messy and shady murder investigation. Why investigating if three convicts have already been put in prison? That's as good a question as any other...and Bella would like to know the answer. Incredibly detailed and vivid descriptions, and a depth of research that will blow you away. Link: http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/s/6069010/1/Where_the_Sidewalk_Ends


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Time to talk their differences over, right? Sorry for the delay in posting this..

As usual, thank you to Eifeltwr and Black Hale for beta'ing and beautifying - you are awesome girls. PeepToe took a break from her awesome merger and is back on board. She rocks too!

Thank you to Lory and Debbie for still holding my hand. 3 Days till we hit London (and the Patz is safely concealed in the Great State of Louisiana, guess he knew we'd come along...)

Special shout outs for this week: Mina for swamping me with beta'ing work (no pressure, eh?). Lady, you are one slave driver, but you did introduce me to Ted Sr. I'll never complain for that. The Fantabulous RPatz EasyV, who left the 90th review last week and has elected, as her rightfully earned freebie, to get a glimpse of Business Class Girl's mind on third flight she unwittingly (sure?) shared with CluelessWard. This will come up...in the near future, TBA...

CluelessWard always thanks the regulars, and wouldn't actually remember to do this, without BCG's help. A huge thanks, of course, to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 13**

_BCG's POV_

Jasper is right. I was wrong. I must not run away. I must stay and face this.

I repeat this mantra in my head as I leave the offices of White, Devlin & Hale and make my way back to Angela's office.

When I get there, Jessica silently ushers me in.

Ang is waiting for me, with a concerned expression on her face. This is news indeed, since I expected a cold shoulder, a tongue-lashing, or at least, a good yell in full Angela style.

"Ang, I think we might have something to deal with, and you won't like it."

"You mean lunch at Morton's?" She says, the same concerned expression on her face.

"Precisely. I should have…"

Angela stops me but then I begin again, her raised hand notwithstanding.

"Wait, how do you know?"

"Who do you think booked that table, Edward himself? He's not that evolved…yet," she quips, with a raised eyebrow.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief. At least she knew beforehand, but…

"Angela, what's wrong? I mean, apart from the throng of paparazzi who cornered us outside the restaurant?"

"Edward, that's what's wrong. What the heck possessed you to walk out on him? I got a frantic phone call from the guy, I rescheduled his interview with E-Weekly and sent him home to regroup," she replies sternly. She sounds upset.

I plop down on the chair in front of her gigantic desk.

"Angela, if you want me out, I understand. Just say the word."

She discards her tortoise-rimmed glasses and takes my hand from across the desk.

She eyes me sympathetically, all traces of her professional, shark-like persona gone. She's just Angela, my friend, right now. The one who knows perfectly well why I fled London, the one who knows why I had to leave my old life behind, and what I want to achieve in this new life I'm trying to create for myself.

"B, you're my best and oldest friend. I don't want you out. I want you in, but you need to get your shit together. The paps are a permanent fixture in this business, you gotta learn to live with that. You are not an inexperienced girl swept off her feet by the glamour of this life. You are a professional, that's why I chose you, because I expect you to behave like one."

I shake my head and squeeze Ang's hand.

"You're a saint and I feel like a huge, fat failure for freaking out on Edward like that. It wasn't even really the paps, it was something he said. I overreacted, I took it the wrong way and twisted it in my head. You know how my mind works." I try my best not to sound too much like a self-deprecating, whining bitch.

"Your beautiful mind works on constant overdrive, but that's one of the reasons why I love you. You wouldn't be so creative, if you weren't so twisted," she replies, on a lighter note.

"Thanks, Ang. What do we do now?"

She flashes me a sly smile, her killer instincts back in full gear.

"Absolutely nothing, because there's nothing to tell. You need to call that poor guy. He begged me to chase you to the ends of the earth to make sure that you were ok, and to do whatever I had to do to bring you back."

I can't help blushing. I feel guilty, because I bailed on Edward, and also a tiny bit flattered, because he wants me back, regardless of my fuck-up. I nod, incapable of formulating a verbal reaction to this. I also notice that, surprisingly, Ang has no comments on the fact that Edward has been wining and dining me. My brain is busy analysing the possible implications of this turn of events.

"By the way, B. I have good news for you," she announces, bringing me back to reality.

"You mean, for Edward?"

"I said for you, B. Are you deaf, all of a sudden? Are you still in shock?"

"No, I'm not, but I assumed…"

"Stop assuming, and listen. First piece of good news: I have two people interested in what you wrote. One of them is here in LA, the other is in NY. Second bit of good news: no need for you to fly your ass anywhere, because they will both be at the Christmas bash at my house next month. You are coming over, aren't you?" She speaks at the speed of lightning. This is just how Angela works, no nonsense and no time wasted.

My eyes go as wide as saucers and my bag, until now safely held in my free hand, clatters to the floor. Screw the blackberry, I'll buy another. This is more important.

"Two? You said two? How is that even possible? Tell me more…Ang, is this for real?"

She smiles again and continues to debrief me, in another single, pragmatic, lightning-speed gush of words. "Yes, B. For one very simple reason: your writing is not just good, it's dynamite. It's a great story, and it's honest and dreamy at the same time… It's not perfect, but we'll get there. The two guys are from two very different publishing houses, with different goals and distinctively different authors in their will find that they will take different approaches to your work, but they both want to meet you, and meet them you will."

I blink once, then twice, then my jaw goes slack with pleased shock, and I truly panic.

Ang senses my impending freak-out and continues the pep-talk. "Don't panic, don't freak out, don't open that document and start making changes at random. Leave everything as it is. Don't read it, don't go near it. We'll go over the details nearer the date. Now go home, bake cookies, play Guitar Hero with Emmett or go for a walk on the beach. I'll see you tomorrow. And…"

I'm on my feet in a flash, and as I'm dashing out of Ang's office, I call over her shoulder.

"And I'll call Edward …"

I need fresh air and a mug of tea, but I want to go home first, and I need to tell Emmett. As if on cue, Weezer's '_Troublemaker_' thunders from my iPhone.

"Em, have you grown a new frontal lobe?"

He snickers over the phone. "Well, good afternoon to you too, Hot Stuff."

"Hey, I was just going to call you."

"Well, little sister with a very prepaid corporate phone, why don't you call me, then, and help this poor self-employed ex-jock to save some bucks?"

My turn to snicker. Once a penny-pincher, always a penny-pincher. "Em, you'll never change. Could you come pick me up? I'm at Ang's office. Oh, and I have news, Em."

"Sure, little sis, see you there in twenty, I was headed downtown anyway. Wait, what? News? Be there in ten, screw the speed limit!"

While I wait for Em to show up, I email Jasper to thank him again and tell him that I'm ok. His curt reply is '_Check out TMZ._'

Since when does Jasper ogle the gossip sites? Oh, right, since his bestie and former assistant works for a prominent Hollywood stud, who also turns out to be the embodiment of his sister's literary hero.

Right after that, Rosalie calls me. Am I a magnet or something, today? Why is everyone calling me?

"BeeBee, why are you on Just Jared?" She begins, archly, without so much as a greeting.

Fuck me sideways. Well, I guess it was only a matter of time.

"Hi Rose, I'm fine, and you?"

"BeeBee, sorry, I was just…" she stammers, clumsily back-pedalling in a very non-Rosalie way. She never stammers.

"Fooling around on the net, combing the web for pictures of….my boss, in the dead of night?"

I've cornered her, and she knows it. She huffs. "Oh, well…I can't hide anything from you, can I? But yes, and then your face turned up…You have some explaining to do, missy!"

"It's nothing, Rose. We were out for lunch, after a casting call. The paparazzi were there. They got pictures as we were leaving the restaurant, end of story."

Rose lets out another huffing sound. In Rosalie-Speak, this means that my explanation sounds like complete crap to her.

"Uh-uh, and what about _His_ arm, draped across your waist, Isabella Swan? What is that supposed to mean?"

I can hear her, all worked up, capitalising the possessive pronoun, as if she was talking about the Queen. Fan girls are an alien race, and my BFF is one of them. I'm relieved at the thought that Edward will be safely back in England when Rosalie is here visiting. I can't think of a more awkward situation than my boss and Rosalie in the same room.

"He was just guiding me safely through the bunch of paps, Rose. It's nothing."

"But he's looking so pissed, what did you do to piss him off? And why were you out for lunch together? And why haven't you called me in a week, you traitor?"

Rosalie's grilling me as if I was a dangerous suspect in a murder case, but she's right, I've been neglecting her since the Jake fiasco.

"Rosalie, I'm waiting for Emmett to pick me up. And I'm sorry I blew you off for so long. I was trying to wrap my mind around…"

She relents, as she always does whenever I mention her latest findings on Mr. Asshole Extraordinaire. Luckily for me, mentioning Jake to Rosalie is the best sidetracking method ever, and now Rosalie and her gossip rag questions are off my back.

"…around the sick fuckery he pulled on you, and you were wondering why your best friend would be such a bitch to tell you? I'm sorry, BeeBee..."

"No need to apologise, Rose. I needed to know. I needed some closure. I just ran off, after all, and all this time, I was questioning myself, wondering whether I was wrong, thinking I was letting him down."

"Yeah, right, but you needn't thrash the kitchen in the process…" she quips, finally joking. Her chime-like laugh definitely lightens up the mood of this conversation.

Emmett has blabbed, again. Seriously, I should think about a non disclosure agreement, a watertight one, signed by both parties, on penalty of disappearance of all gaming equipment, _in omnia saecula saeculorum*. _

"My brother is a gossiping old lady, and you indulge him. Still…I'm glad you told me. At least now I know."

"BeeBee, that doesn't change anything, you know that, right? He was an asshole before, now he's an asshole with ulterior motives. So what?". She has never been very fond of Jake, and now her dream is to have his nuts on a silver platter.

"This coming from the very girl who introduced him to me… Remind me not to set any store by your matchmaking skills in the future, girlie…" I try to joke, throwing her one ill-advised youthful mistake back in her face. Ouch.

"Yeah, but there's no way you're gonna hold me jointly and severally liable for that!"

She's herself again now, back to the hard-ass investment banker I know and love. The fan girl is gone, back into the closet. I hear tires screeching in the background. That must be Em.

"No worries, Rose. Em is here. I'll talk to you later."

"Great, say hi to my monkey man. BeeBee, I can't wait to see you at Christmas. We're gonna have a blast."

"I can't believe it's only three weeks away. Bye, Rose."

The line disconnects as I get in the Viper. Emmett is sporting a wide, pearly, but sheepish, grin.

"Sis, I should have told you Rosie would pester you. Sorry about that."

I reply with an unintelligible grunt. I am not really in the mood for Em's antics and his talking behind my back. True, it's not deliberate, and there's no malice in it, but sometimes, I really wish my friends and family would refrain from holding these conferences without me. It's disturbing.

Still, I have some news to share with Em.

"Emmie?"

He throws me a one-eyed glance, his other eye on the road and his hands not leaving the steering wheel. "Hot Stuff?"

"You not gonna grill me about the pics?"

"You saw them? Already?" he sounds shocked.

"No, Rose and Jazz mentioned them. Funnily enough, the trash hits the old continent first. Have you seen them?"

"No, but Eddie told me. You need to call your boss, sister, before he starts stalking you and camps out on our doorstep," he replies, and he doesn't even sound bothered.

I scoff. _Tu quoque, Emmett?*_ And now he's even talking to Edward. Correction: my friends and family are not just starting a forum on me, they are also all ganging up on me, and that includes my boss.

"I will when we get home. I made a mess, and now I'm gonna clean it up. But first…I have news, brother. Major news."

"Major news call for steaks, BeeBee. But don't tell me anything now, just let me stew a little. Let's get out of here." Emmett is speeding along the PCH, and with his maniacal driving skills, we're home in less than half an hour.

As we make our way upstairs from the garage, I feel something vibrating in my bag, and it's my blackberry, that I've woefully neglected for the past five hours. I notice an envelope flashing almost angrily in a corner of the screen.

I have some 25 missed calls, and a shit-ton of texts. Except one missed call from Angela and one from Alice, all calls and all texts are from Edward. I scroll through the texts, and my sense of guilt trebles with each of them.

***Bella, I'm sorry. Please come back.***

***Bella, I tried calling you. Please call me back.***

***B, I talked to Angela. We'll sort this out. Please call me.***

***B, still not picking up your phone. Panicking here…***

***B, I'll do whatever it takes to bring you back. Please call me.***

***B, I want this to work. Do you, too? Call me.***

***B, hurry back to me, please.***

I collapse on the wooden stairs to my room. Emmett is nowhere to be seen. Somehow, I get back on my feet and trudge to the safe haven of my room. I desperately need to clear my head before I can take some action and deal with the collateral damage of what will go down in history as the Morton's Lunch Fiasco. I ditch my pinstriped Dolce&Gabbana pantsuit, fling my Jimmy Choo's in a random corner of my room, and jump into the shower.

A long while later, slumped barefoot in the middle of my bedroom floor, I look back on this hell of a day, finally with some perspective that will hopefully prevent me from running for the hills again.

Angela is right. I need to get my shit together. I chose to deal with the craziness when I accepted this job. My additional inducement is that I get to stay in this business and work by Edward's side, not without some pleasant, but insidious side effects for me. Angela's all the more concerned about my future resilience to the media circus, and for a very good reason which she has been wise enough not to mention. I, myself, dare not even entertain the thought, yet, but I am going to follow Angela's advice and try to be cool about this.

Jasper is also right. I panicked because I feel guilty. Thankfully he did not force me to elaborate but, deep down, I know it's not just a question of wanting to shag the boss. I manage Edward's time, I make sure he is on top of all his commitments, I try to anticipate his needs, I shield him from any and all hassle that he can't, won't or shouldn't sort out for himself. In short, I look after him, and I spend a lot of time with him, loads more than I did with Jasper. Hell, even more than I spent with Jacob.

In one week, I've come to care about Edward and to know him pretty well. Knowing him, right now he's holed up in his impersonal, shabby flat chastising himself for not doing this right, and dreading that I'll never speak to him again. This false impression needs to be rectified without further ado.

But first, my newly-gained perspective also tells me that my self-imposed secrecy with Edward about all matters personal is not working out as well as I hoped. Worse, it threatens to backfire on my ass with a flourish. My relationship with my boss-friend must be based on trust, and if I'm not open and honest with him, how can he ever trust me not to pull another disappearing act on him again?

LA Bella and BeeBee both need to fess up, even if this means that I might get hurt in the process.

I grab my iPhone and, for the very first time, I dial Edward's private cell phone number. This is an emergency of sorts, and extreme times call for extreme measures. A sly, conniving part of me hopes he won't recognise my own personal number and, being unable to dodge the call, he'll have to pick it up whether he wants to talk to me or not. Let's hope things have not gotten to this point, yet.

_Edward_

Angela has forbidden me to leave the house, with strict instructions to wait for Bella to call me. She doesn't, though. I relentlessly try to reach her, but she never picks up her blackberry when I call, and she never answers my texts. My afternoon wanes in long, silent and dejected stretches of time. Nothing can hold my attention for more than five seconds, because I'm always back to square one, where my 'crackberry' stands still, mute and undisturbed, while I'm pacing the room in circles like a madman.

_Quit pacing, Cullen. You'll burn a hole through the floor._

I stand still for a second, throwing one more sullen look around me. After three long hours, the only brilliant idea I come up with is to lock up the offending device in the fridge so that I can stop looking at it every five nanoseconds. It works, but only partially, because my obsessive-compulsive mind can't refrain from breaking down and analysing every tiny detail of what went down today with Bella.

_Quit pulling your hair, Cullen. You'll go prematurely bald and be forced to become the next Bruce Willis in a bunch of action movies._

At long last, I fling all of my complicated theories about it out the window, and end up wallowing in self-deprecation. I don't care how much of a drama queen or a pathetic stalker I seem right now, I just want her back. I need to know that we can get through this silly mishap, together, as a team.

_You want to know that she hasn't given up on you, Cullen. Already._

When I've finally given up on myself, '_Kryptonite_' starts blaring through my room.

_If I go crazy then will you still_

_Call me Superman_

_If I'm alive and well, will you be_

_There holding my hand_

_I'll keep you by my side with_

_My superhuman might_

_Kryptonite_

My cell phone is ringing. My very own cell phone, the one phone that should never be called and I suddenly feel a little lighter. Why? Because, being the crazy stalker that I am, I saved Bella's personal number on my cell and…well, she's my own personal brand of kryptonite…

Kryptonite is calling and, right on cue, Superman can't but be affected. I pick up on the second ring and, even if I'm prepared for this, her voice knocks me off my feet.

"Edward?" she whispers softly, in a tentative and bashful voice that tugs at my heartstrings. I wonder whether she's aware of what she can do to me with one whisper. I am a grown man and I almost feel like crying with relief. I don't want Bella to get that, though, and quickly man up, with intermittent waves of elation and relief coursing through me.

"Bella…finally…" I croak. There goes manning up.

"Edward, please, forgive me…I'm…" she adds, breathlessly.

"Bella? Stop apologising, I'm the one who…"

"No", she interrupts me. "I overreacted, and it's not your fault. None of it is your fault, you don't even know why I acted like that. It wasn't professional of me, it will never happen again." Her voice is still broken by emotion, but serious at the same time.

This opening sounds strangely ominous to me and, as my newly-found relief starts to crumble to dust, I find that I have to ask the next question, even if knowing the answer to this could be my undoing.

"Bella, please, put me out of my misery. Are you quitting?"

Silence. More and more ominous.

_You are panicking, Cullen. Not very manly._

"No, I told you I'd never bail on you," she continues, still serious.

"You did." Unexpectedly, my voice sounds hollow and expressionless, as if it didn't belong to me at all.

_She did tell you, Cullen. She also bailed on you, Cullen, in case you forgot._

"But I also failed you. I don't want this to hang over us in the future, I want to make it up to you," she replies, her voice less broken, but full of emotion all the same.

_Don't let your imagination run wild, Cullen._

"I want you to trust me, and my behaviour today allows for anything but. I will tell you why I overreacted, and I won't dodge your questions anymore. But I am warning you, it's a long story," she continues, her tone now laced with determination.

As I am about to say that I would gladly talk to her on the phone for hours, there's an hideous echo in the distance. An echo that sounds horribly like 'Werewolves of London'. Asshole. He must be calling on her blackberry. How the fuck did he get _that_ number? As far as I know, the only people who have it are Angela, Jessica, and other work-related contacts. None of her friends and family have her work number, not even Emmett.

Rage instantly boils up in my veins and my teeth are gritting, fighting back a few choice expletives. I spit out my next words without even thinking.

"I'm coming over, B."

I don't even bother to call Ben or Eric. I just stumble to my feet and rush out of my flat, forcibly landing on the first cab I see.

Strangely enough, there are no paps around but, other than being relieved for five seconds, I choose not to dwell on the subject. I am too wrapped up in my Bella-induced haze and my hurry to get to her to notice anything else.

She says she's not quitting. She says she's going to explain everything.

_Don't get carried away, Cullen. She said she'd explain this one thing._

She still wants to talk to me. She still wants to work for me.

Forty-five excruciating minutes later, I'm standing outside Bella's door. When I knock, Emmett opens and silently ushers me in. His face displays a half-surprised, half-relieved expression. It's as if he expected me to show up.

My only greeting is a tense but grateful nod, because my attention's immediately riveted by what's happening in the living room.

Bella's angrily pacing the room, her bare feet padding rhythmically on the floorboards, back and forth, and tossing a golf ball from her right hand to the left. She's no longer dressed to the nines like this morning. She's not even wearing those tatty, grey sweatpants I saw at dinner a week ago. She's wearing a pair of navy blue shorts that hang low on her hips and a white t-shirt. Both the t-shirt and the shorts look several sizes too big for her. As she turns to begin a new circuit around the room, I notice a strangely familiar crest on one sleeve of the t-shirt.

The crest shows two castle towers by either side of the goddess Athena, brandishing her spear amongst white and blue sea waves. My clueless brain recognises this crest, because I've seen it before. I've seen it in Uncle Russell's house, for fuck's sake. There's a painting of it, proudly displayed on the walls of his study, back home in England.

This crest is the Dartmouth crest, as in Dartmouth, Devonshire, not Dartmouth, New Hampshire. It's the crest of the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, and I know it so well because Uncle Russ was a cadet officer in his own time, and hammered into me the niceties of navy life when I was a child.

How is it that Bella is wearing Dartmouth training gear, that actually looks like it belongs to someone else, in a size considerably larger than she would actually wear? There are no name tags on these training t-shirts, so my inner stalker awakens to store the information away for further investigation.

_Holy fucking hell, Cullen. There's a BRNC-trained navy officer in her life?_

Shaking my head clear from this momentous news, I notice that Bella's wearing an earpiece, like one of those Bluetooth thingies. She's on the phone, and she looks pissed as hell.

"Jessica, for the last fucking time, who the hell did he say he was, and for what godforsaken reason you thought it was a good idea to give him my new number?"

Jessica? Why is she talking, nay, shouting at Jessica on the phone? Emmett puts a finger to his lips, indicating that we should remain silent and inconspicuous. I agree wholeheartedly, because I'm dying to know what's happening.

"He posed as a lawyer from White Devlin & Hale? Well, that's rich. I'll have him in shackles, or committed. Preferably both. No, wait! Hung, drawn and quartered should do the trick." She's no longer shouting, but her spite and anger are flowing free with her words.

There's a brief silence as she's listening to Jessica's reply.

"There's no way you could have known, Jess. I'm not mad at you, not now, at least. But that was a very safe number, and very precious. Very few but important people have it and I don't want to have to change it, that would be an unnecessary hassle. Could you please check with Cingular tomorrow whether they can block incoming calls from Jake altogether?"

Another brief silence ensues. Bella nods, but she's still pacing.

"No, Jess, exactly. Just run it past me in the future."

Another nod, another brief silence and then, the next words make me grin like an idiot. A very selfish, smug, but happy idiot.

"Jess, the only guy who's _always_ entitled to know where I am and what I'm up to is Edward," she says, firmly, as she turns in my direction.

She must have noticed someone standing awkwardly in the corner of her eye and her gaze lifts up to face me. Her mouth is agape, she blinks and then flashes me the most glorious smile I've ever seen on her face.

She wordlessly disconnects the earpiece and tosses it on the couch, as she walks closer to me.

Everything I see now tells me that we're gonna be ok, that we'll put this behind us, even if there'll be other bumps in the road to get there. I nervously cast a restless glance around, but Em is nowhere to be seen.

"Are you alright?"

This is all I can blurt out, all other thoughts and questions hastily erased from my mind, the minute my eyes roam over her figure, drinking in every little detail, from the look in her eyes, to the way her ponytail sways while she's walking and the tiny, almost imperceptible frown on her forehead.

She nods, still smiling.

"Thank God you're here," she finally says, her eyes also roaming over my features, trying to read me, just as I did with her right now.

My feet move of their own accord to close the distance between us, and I realise that I want to embrace her, hold her safe in my arms and make all of this stupid shit go away. But that wouldn't be a smart move, and even clueless old me knows this.

She wants her distance, and she wants to talk this over. I'll give her that, I'll do everything on her own terms, I'll even walk to the moon and back, but there's one thing I want to know, first.

"B, please tell me you didn't…?"

I can't even finish my question. I know I'm being nosy, I know it's none of my fucking business. I know I have no fucking right to even ask, but the last thing she needs today is another call from Jacob on top of all this mess.

"You figured out that it was Jake calling, right?" she asks, her voice level. She looks perfectly at ease. She doesn't look mad, nor shaken. Hell, she doesn't even sound pissed. This is strange.

I must either assume she is high on something, but I can't imagine anything more unlike her, or that there's something I don't know. I try to stick to the easiest explanation and go for the second option.

I nod and add, my voice still concerned and hesitant, "Please tell me you didn't…deal with that?"

She shakes her head with a sly smile. "No, Em did. Got to the phone before me and gave Jake a piece of his mind, in no uncertain terms."

My eyes go as wide as saucers. I can't deny that I'm relieved, though. I let out a deep breath I don't know I was holding. I realise I've been walking on eggshells all day, since Bella left me stranded outside Morton's.

"What the hell happened, B? Can you tell me, now?"

Her face turns serious and she, too, heaves an uneasy sigh. I guess the easy part of this conversation is sadly over.

"I want to tell you, Edward. I need to…but…"

I take another step closer and my hand lands protectively on her shoulder. Screw the distance, she needs me.

_Keep telling yourself that, Cullen._

"But, B?"

"I need concentration, Boss. It's a long story, as I said, and…hell, I have my own rituals."

I can't help raising an eyebrow.

"Don't look at me that way, Boss. I'm not going to dance naked in the moonlight…"

_Though that'd be something to behold, Cullen…_

The storm is definitely behind us, if she's throwing jibes here and there so casually.

"I…suppose…not…" I manage to stutter.

She walks away from me, in the general direction of the kitchen, and calls over her shoulder.

"I just need my own brand of liquid courage. Come along, Boss."

And then it dawns on me. Idiot…

"Earl Grey, B?"

"Not quite," she answers, as she motions for me to take a seat at the kitchen island.

This kitchen is huge, even bigger than Em's game room, and its high-tech appliances are all shiny and new. Em told me that Bella's never lived steadily in this house before now, but she did have a few bones to pick with Em's interior designer when he moved here and remodelled. The kitchen had to be to her liking, and up to par with her cooking requirements. Em defines it as 'a chef's wet dream', with his customary visual language.

Bella's fishing something out of a cabinet and then turns to show me her treasure trove. It's a black tin box, with a very familiar logo and white writing all over.

"Prince of Wales, Boss, Prince of Wales. This is my own version of a tumbler of Laphroaig."

I nod, chuckling. Only Bella could choose her blend of tea according to her mood.

"Coffee, Boss?" she asks, knowing my own addiction for caffeine. I want something else, for a change. I've been wanting loads of something else's since Bella came along.

"Actually, I'll have your own brew of Laphroaig too, please."

"Two Prince of Wales, extra black, coming right up."

Seven minutes later, she sets two gigantic red Starbucks mugs on the island and takes a seat in front of me.

Nursing her mug in her tiny hands, she finally asks, "What do you know about Jasper?"

_A lot more than you should, Cullen._

"He used to be your boss. He's a name partner at White, Devlin & Hale. He's Uncle Russell's golden boy."

Bella sets her mug down on the counter and looks me straight in the eye.

"He's all that, and something else besides," she says, with a tone that does not even attempt to mask her admiration for this guy.

_Oh no, Cullen, not him too. Are you up for some more healthy competition?_

"Jasper is my best friend, Edward. I've known him for years, for nearly ten years, to be precise."

The proverbial light bulb flashes in my brain. This explains it all: the banter, the continuous calls, the questions, the nickname, the Christmas visit, the video calls, everything. They were, hell, they are, very close.

_Wait, Cullen, are they only just friends?_

"How did you meet him?" I ask, genuinely curious to hear this story from the beginning.

She fixates her eyes on a non-descript point beyond my shoulder and smiles. These must be happy, fond memories for her.

"Oxford. I met his sister first, though. We were roommates."

"Rosalie?" The pieces of Bella's life are slowly falling into place.

"The very one. Jazz is two years older than us, and of course he came to check on his little sister and on her helpless, reclusive, only half-English roomie. The three of us were always together, for the next four years. They became my extended family, my home away from home."

I smile, too. "I wish I'd known you then."

She blushes. "I was a nerd, Edward. Jasper tormented me all the time, putting me through tons of blind dates with his mates, and his band mates, as well," she explains, chuckling. Hard to imagine her as a nerd…though her "Professor Swan" getup, now that, has some possibilities…

_You are straying, Cullen, and your pants are getting too snug for comfort._

"With his mates? Band mates, and not with him?" I never pegged Jasper for a musical guy, but I guess I missed a lot of things. Meanwhile, Bella is blushing furiously, again.

"Nooo…with Jazz…things just never clicked that way. Not for Rosalie's lack of trying, though."

Then I remember that Rosalie is Emmett's girlfriend. Figures. "She sounds like a bossy little thing," I quip.

"There's nothing little about Rosalie, and yes, she's bossy, to the point that she makes me look like Mother Theresa. Still, when she met Emmett, you know, she hoped that…" she continues, her hand motioning in a quite obvious way.

"…that you and Jasper, like one big happy family?" I surmise, quite unable to resist the punch line.

Bella laughs, but it dies away quickly. "Right. But it never worked, luckily. And then…"

_Luckily for you, Cullen. Luckily for you. And no use tormenting yourself to figure out why, either._

She takes a long sip of her tea and I find myself doing the same.

"Then he left Oxford, came back from Princeton two years later, with an LLM under his belt, and goaded me until I went, met Russell for an interview and got hired as his PA at White & Devlin."

"And so you found yourself playing golf with Uncle Russell?"

She nods, her eyes still vacant, lost in the distance. "Working for Jasper for the last four years nearly drained me of blood. We were together almost 24/7 and the pressure was just…overwhelming."

Nothing that sounds too different from Hollywood, so far, but Bella's tone suggests that there's a big catch somewhere along the line. I don't want to interrupt, or ask nosy or inappropriate questions, so I motion for her to go on.

"Jasper's career just skyrocketed. Other than Russell, he is, hands down, the most talented lawyer I've ever worked with. He really is top of the game, doesn't ever miss a beat or an opportunity, and has amazing people skills. Clients just trust him implicitly, partly because he's got this old England charm about him, and partly because he's got these angelic looks…"

_Now you really want to throttle him, Cullen. You know you do._

"Anyway, there was no time to pause and reflect. Our life, our job, it was all a whirlwind, a flurry of activities. We were perpetually in the eye of the storm, always on the move. I found myself entangled in firm politics faster than you could say 'Quidditch'. I supported him when he went and put up for a partnership, and it was gruelling work, on top of our everyday deals. Jasper is a genius for corporate law, but can't write a line to save his life. He's a perfectionistic, anal-retentive, methodical, whiny little thing, but has no memory to speak of. So guess what…?"

"Something tells me you were his eyes, his ears, his remote hard drive, his ghost writer…"

She nods and continues, "His PR specialist, market researcher, spy behind enemy lines, private shrink, shoulder to cry on, career coach…And somewhere down the road, I lost my friend. He used to say…"

Her voice quivers. I guess we're getting to the hard part now. Screw the distance, she needs me. I jump to her side of the counter and put my arm around her shoulders. Strangely enough, she leans into my side and puts her head on my own shoulder.

_Now we're getting somewhere, Cullen._

My thumb runs soothing circles on her shoulder. I guess the accursed appendage was going through withdrawal; it's been some time since it had the pleasure of engaging in its favourite activity.

"B, you can talk to me. What happened?"

"Just this, Edward. I had been afraid all along that I'd lose him to his career, somehow. I knew this would be detrimental to our friendship, but I couldn't say no to Jasper. He was too convincing for his own good, and he kept repeating that he'd be there for me, that we'd be as close as ever, but…"

"But, B?"

"But at the end of the day, he was a partner in one of the top 5 law firms in London, and I was his assistant. There was no way in hell we could still be friends, as we'd been for years. Most of the time, I was walking on thin ice at best, when it wasn't quicksand. I took the pressure away from him, but it was a one-way process. He could never take my pressure away. He could never listen when I needed to vent out my feelings. And of course, the rumour mill was haywire all the time."

My brows are furrowed in frustration, I don't understand where this is going. "B, I don't get this. What sort of rumours? I know I may sound like a moron, but…"

She shakes her head against my shoulder. I feel her laboured breaths on my chest and struggle to keep my composure, for her sake.

"It's ok, Edward, there's no way you could imagine what would happen in such a place."

Then it dawns on me. The second light bulb of the day gets me out of my self-centred funk and all the pieces of the mystery click into place. Against my better judgement, I gather Bella tightly to my chest, enveloping her fully in my arms. She sobs against my chest as my hands caress her back in slow, caring motions.

"B, let me guess. Everyone knew you were friends before, everyone saw how close you were, everyone knew that you were as good as his alter ego, and you were Russ's golfing partner to boot…and they kinda went…one and one makes five?"

She nods silently onto my chest. My reaction is a low, rumbling growl. She must feel this, but she doesn't flinch.

"And Jazz didn't stop this? He didn't protect you from this?"

_Well, Cullen, looks like golden boy fed your Bella to the wolves…_

She shyly looks up at me from under my chin. Her expression is vulnerable and lost, and she's never looked more precious to me than she does now.

"He didn't know, Edward. There was no way I could tell him, without making things worse for both him and me. I let things be, and ignored the gossip. I knew better."

"But B, the pressure…was yours alone to bear…it wasn't…fuck, it must have been some kind of hell for you, on top of all the rest!"

She shrugs against my chest. "It doesn't matter, Edward, Jazz and I are friends. I did it for him, I'd do it again."

_What the fuck, Cullen? _

My inner caveman is having a field day, and growls again, brandishing his club against a prim and proper lawyer dressed in a Burberry suit. I can't help but wonder if she'd go to the same lengths to make _my_ life easier and shield _me_ from harm.

"It doesn't matter? What the hell, B? It fucking matters to me, if it didn't matter to golden boy…"

She flinches, and tilts her head to the side, her eyebrows furrowed. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

I shake my head vigorously, and hug her tighter. "I could never be, Bella. Though I wish you'd told me earlier."

"I…I didn't know…whether…I…there, listen, the thing is…" she stutters.

"B, spit it out. Don't give yourself a brain haemorrhage." She chuckles briefly and then begins again.

"Right, Boss. I didn't know whether I could trust you, ok? And you started saying that you'd be my friend, that you'd be there for me…and the comment that you'd not be the first one to shag his assistant…Oh god, that's just so fucking embarrassing…"

"It just hit a bit too close to home, right?"

She looks at me sheepishly. "Yep, I guess it did, Boss. I snapped, it won't happen again."

My eyes turn serious all of a sudden, as I think that she must have quit her job in London because the pressure was too much. I will never allow this to happen to her again. I don't ever want her to feel that she has no alternative but to run away, I just don't want her to run away from me.

"B, I want you to talk to me, next time something doesn't work. I mean it, B. I'm dead serious about this. I may not be an Oxford graduate, I have no Ivy League LLMs, but I fucking care about you. Hell, I can't function without you, the last thing I want is to scare you away from me. Am I being clear?"

She wipes a few stray tears away with the back of her hand and nods. She heaves a deep sigh and then something magical happens.

She hugs me back. Bella's hugging me back, with her arms wound around my waist, and her cheeks pressed to my chest. I can't help but hum contented like a child, as she whispers against my chest, "Thank you, Edward."

"Thank you, B, for being honest with me."

"Let's get you home, Boss. We have a lot to do tomorrow," she quips, her returned good cheer lighting up her eyes.

_You did something right, Cullen. _

I can't resist pushing my luck again, as I ask, with a mischievous undertone to my voice, "You're taking me home, B? On the Tiger?"

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "On the Tiger, Boss? First, technically, it just sits one, and you know it."

"Technically?" I retort, my eyes narrowing to slits. She's been holding out on me, I can sense this.

"Well, if I remove the cover there's a sorry excuse for a passenger seat…but I can't imagine you perched up there, to save my life. More to the point, have you ever been on a motorbike?"

Quirking an eyebrow, I push my luck some more. "No?"

"Then there's no way in hell you're riding that with me, Boss. Well, you're never riding that, period. I'm a pretty reckless rider, and I don't want to get your hot ass scratched because you couldn't hold on tight enough, Boss."

_What makes her think you wouldn't be holding on tight? Wait, Cullen! She said you have a hot ass!_

"But…"

"No buts, Edward Cullen. And that's final. I'm driving you home in the Viper."

_Viper…red sports car…hood…this has possibilities, Cullen. And she's driving…_

_

* * *

_

**No Fic Rec's this week, sorry. I've been busy writing ;-)**

**But...key to the cryptic Latin phrases above:**

***in omnia saecula saeculorum = for ever and ever**

*** Tu quoque = you, too? Reference to Will Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, who accuses his adoptive son Brutus as the latter stabs the dictator to death...**

**Public Service Announcement: I will be in London next Sunday...and won't be able to post the next chapter. So bear with me, hide the pitchforks...and wait for my impending hang-over to dissolve ;-)  
**


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Happy Hallowe'en everyone...mine has taken a bit of a tumble, cause RL kicked in pretty hard. But I'm still standing, and here I am.

As usual, thank you to Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe for beta'ing and beautifying. How ironic is it that one of my beta's is actually an attorney? I couldn't get any one more anal retentive than that, and I mean this as a HUGE compliment.

A big thank you to my sisters in crime Lory and Debbie for still holding my hand. We survived a 4 day stint in London and the best thing is that my mom still talks to me (she was with us).

Shout outs for this week: KitsuShel for rocking the Glosp Awards and for bringing the black towel into my world. Mina, Eifeltwr and RPatz EasyV who I couldn't really do without. EasyV has actually found a new nickname for CluelessWard - VacantWard. I think I like this one even better than the first.

CluelessWard always thanks the regulars, and wouldn't actually remember to do this, without BCG's help. A huge thanks, of course, to everyone reading, reviewing and pimping my little story all over the fandom. You all rock too. :)

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

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**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 14**

_Edward_

The next three weeks flash by at the speed of sound. I should be nervous, edgy, irritable, and exhausted because of the sheer amount of work I'm doing every single day, and of all the other shit that's going on in my life in general, but I can't even bring myself to feel one single ounce of disagreeable feelings in my bones.

Just when I could be entitled to be a standoffish jerk, I'm not, and everyone around me is walking on eggshells because they are waiting for the other shoe to drop. They are waiting for the clueless asshole to rear his ugly head again and turn up late at a read-through, to bail out on an interview at the last second, to bitch about a photo shoot or whine because I don't feel like reading through tons of fan mail or scripts.

This isn't going to happen, though, this time around. I've got a secret weapon, with an unflappable sense of organisation, an infectious laugh, a killer eye for detail, and ruthless business instincts to boot. Bella is my secret weapon and my kryptonite all at the same time.

Work-wise, she has carved out a perfect niche for herself, carefully balanced with Angela's responsibilities so that they are constantly on the same page, and no-one ends up doing something twice (or not at all, which was my own preferred M.O. in the pre-Bella era). She also physically hauls my sorry ass wherever and whenever I need to be, and my newly-found timeliness has mellowed out Angela's mood dramatically. Much to my own displeasure, though, she doesn't drive me around in the Viper. Ben and Eric are our perpetual designated drivers, and the limo is our vehicle of choice.

_Just when you thought you could have some quality time under that hood, Cullen…_

Life-wise, Bella constantly keeps me on my toes. She's always helpful and caring, anticipates my needs even, but she never overtakes my own volition. She is true to her word, in that her opinion is always honest, sometimes bordering on merciless, when it comes to safeguarding my personal image and my career. She's also more relaxed and open around me, and this can't but please me immensely, not that this new openness has paved the way for more soul-baring conversations – yet.

This precarious, but fascinating balance in our boss-friend-alter ego-assistant relationship is sort of flung to the back burner throughout December, because my schedule is literally exploding and the two of us barely have the time to sit down with Angela to say "yay or nay" to projects and commitments which are about to cram my calendar in the next quarter. Bella only manages to keep in touch with Ang via blackberry.

I'm working my ass off even more than usual, because I'm cooped up in the studio all day for all sorts of pre-production shenanigans, clocking in 14 to 16 hours per day. I'm constantly exhausted and the only reason I'm not cracking under the pressure is that Bella keeps me on my feet with a constant supply of caffeine. More often than not, though, and ever the copycat of everything that gets me closer to her, I ditch my black nectar of the gods for a scalding hot mug of Earl Grey. She notices, but is wise enough not to voice her comments, which are limited to a raised eyebrow every now and then.

One day in the studio I'm having my head scanned, because it's needed for the CGI effects they'll be doing in post-production. I'm sitting on an awfully uncomfortable chair in a darkroom, with what looks disgustingly like a pantyhose stuck on my head as a cap, because they need to scan my head's actual shape, not the hopeless disarray that comprises my hair. While I'm being tortured, and my nose is scrunched up like I'm still five years old and my mum is force-feeding me broccoli, Bella is hiding in a corner, standing close to one of the assistant directors, talking closely and giggling every time my disgust becomes apparent. I'm not enjoying this at all, but what's bugging me more is the fact that she's there, in all of her designer-clad perfection, and everyone on the production staff is just hanging on every word she says. This assistant director, by the way, is also standing a bit too close for comfort.

_Yours, or hers, Cullen? Be honest._

The next day, it's wardrobe, hairstyling and make-up. When Bella reads through the schedule, she happens to drop a salacious remark along the lines of '_Edward's in for his field day_', that has her eyes light up like she knows she's up to no good, and me squirming in my seat like I'm being dragged to the executioner's block. But, because Bella is laughing her ass off at my blatant weaknesses, and because I want to get even with her, I come up with some whiny excuse that I need her around me for the day, and I force her to sit with me and 'hold my hand' all through the wardrobe torture.

Dress fittings actually include a lot of un-clothed time, and this is where I'm having some wicked fun at her expense. She doesn't know this, and her amazement shows plainly on her beet-red face when she realises that I'm standing in the middle of the room, basically stripped down to my boxer-briefs. I may not be built like her linebacker brother, nor am I sculpted like an athlete, but I've always been slim and toned. I just want to see her squirm for a second or two, and for once, I end up having the upper hand. Once she's past the initial shock, she imperceptibly gives me a fleeting, appreciative look. She tries to be stealthy about it, but fails, because I happen to lock my eyes with hers at that precise moment.

_Cue the sexy smirk, Cullen. She's looking at you…_

Of course, as soon as she looks at me, my brilliant plan threatens to backfire on my nearly bare ass. Even from across the room, I can see that her pupils are dilated, and her chocolate orbs are almost black. As she quickly averts her eyes, I feel that my mouth is parched with lust and my breath is shallower. Boxers be damned.

_She's merely given you the once-over, Cullen, and you're pitching a tent? Rookie…_

The tension between us suddenly grows so thick that you could cut through it with a knife, until the costume designer herself clears her throat to get my attention back to the task at hand. A door clicks shut behind me, and it takes me a minute to figure out that Bella has left the room. While she may have left for a number of perfectly practical reasons, I can't stop thinking that my little stunt has affected her as much as myself.

_She wants you, Cullen. You can work with that._

During these three weeks, Bella is with me the whole time and, other than loitering around the studio, waiting on me hand and foot, just because I'm a brat like that, she actually leaves my side only to run errands that are, ultimately, meant for my sole benefit.

There's a couple of times, though, when she leaves in a hurry, muttering excuses that only boil down to 'Gotta go see Ang'. I try to ask if something's up, before she goes, and if there's something I need to know, once she's back, but all I get is a series of evasive 'Don't you worry'. Now this is strange, indeed.

_She'd never go behind your back, Cullen. But you'd probably go behind hers._

Around mid-December, Bella is finalising whatever legal crap necessary to secure the lease on my new house. Next, once Kate and Garrett have vacated the house, my super-organised Business Class Girl is staging my big move as if it's nothing short of the invasion of Normandy, moving my scanty possessions into it. I've been naughtily anxious that she'd have to go through my unmentionables to get the move done but, once again, she outwits me and has the housekeeper do it instead, a housekeeper I don't even know I'm paying for…

During all this, I'm left to my own devices at the studio for a couple of days, going through storyboards and other stuff with the director and the rest of the crew. Though I try whining, insisting that she stay with me because I might need her, Bella does not relent and effectively cuts off the negotiation (like I ever had a chance negotiating against her) by saying that I'm going to be cooped up in the studio all day anyway, and she might just take the chance to get the rest of this 'shit' over and done with, so that I can actually emerge from the studio with a new address to my name. Reluctantly, I let her go, with a brooding look on my face.

Storyboards are an exciting process. You sit in a room, with the director, the screenwriter, the production designer, the producers, and the story unfolds itself before your eyes. You put images to the words you absorbed in the script. You see exactly what is going to happen, scene by scene, shot by shot, and take a sneak peek at what everything is going to look like.

This time around, I get a big reveal with these storyboards. A big reveal that hits me like a punch in the face. It looks like there will be a scene or two where I'll actually be shirtless. I joke for a second about a stunt double with a six-pack, but then Demetri (the director) silences me.

"No way, Cullen. It's gotta be your own hot bod in that film. It's part of the character and I'll be swamped in shitty reviews if anyone picks up that we've had to airbrush your pecs in CGI. Not to mention what the gossip rags will say about you…"

I gulp, because I'm not a real fan of pull-ups and stuff. My idea of working out is strumming on my guitar.

Demetri senses my discomfort and adds, "You need to find a personal trainer, Edward, and soon. If you plan it well, you can bulk up in time for filming. Guess it won't kill you, either."

And…that's a wrap! I have an emergency. On autopilot, I say goodbye quickly and dial Bella's 'crackberry'.

"Houston, we have a problem."

"Boss, I'm still in LA. You sure you wanted to talk to me?" she quips, diverted.

"Who else, B? I've got an emergency. Where are you?"

"I'm at the house, Boss. You're officially a resident of Venice Beach, as of now."

I relax minutely. I should be thrilled to finally have some sort of permanent residence in LA, and terrified that this draws me farther and farther away from London, but I'm actually quite peaceful. Bella's my neighbour. Wow.

"Boss? Still alive out there? What's the emergency?" Bella is in work mode now.

"Wow, B. We're neighbours. Can I come over and borrow some sugar?"

I really can't help tossing these jokes around, even if I know she'll be pissed at me.

_Maybe, Cullen. Eventually._

"You can try, if Emmett can find it. Boss, hello? Emergency?" She replies, almost icily.

_Most definitely, Cullen. Back-pedal, while you can._

"Yeah, right, emergency. I'll need to be shirtless in a couple of scenes," I begin.

I'm sort of embarrassed to discuss this with Bella, and I'm trying to defuse my tension by talking about it in a roundabout way.

"And? I could bet you have little qualms with public displays of near nudity, judging from your little stunt the other day."

Bollocks. I'm also a filthy hypocrite, and she's throwing this back in my face, all the while admitting that she noticed what I did.

"Yeah, well…the fact is…they want me to bulk up and actually have a six-pack and all, B. Can they do it?"

She tsks disapprovingly through the phone. "Oh, yes, Boss. Of course, they can. There's a specific clause to this effect in your contract, and…"

"I would know myself if I took the trouble to read it?"

I hope my attempt at self-flagellation appeases her.

"That, Boss and…Ang will give you grief for at least a decade if you throw a temper tantrum over this. But don't worry, I've got a solution."

I am relieved, but not surprised. I knew she'd sort this out for me.

_You'd rather she sorted you out, Cullen._

"Thanks, B. Don't know what I'd do without you," I breathe out, relieved.

"No probs, Boss. Meet me at the house in half an hour. Can you make it?"

I can't fail to notice that she has purposely ignored my sappy comment.

"Sure, but…mine or yours?"

She chuckles. "Are you going to toss around this kind of jokes for much longer, Boss?"

I try as hard as possible to sound contrite. "I'm sorry, B. I couldn't resist, I'm just…you know, happy that I'm not living like a luxury hobo anymore. Do you think the neighbours will be friendly?"

I'm fighting dirty, and I know it. Bella knows I miss London like crazy. This – me finding a 'home' in LA – is the sort of thing that tugs at her protective instincts towards me.

"I'm glad, Boss. Just…don't push your luck, you know you're hitting a nerve with that."

"I know, B. I was just horsing around, am I forgiven? Hey, see you at my house? Wow…feels almost weird to say that…"

"Actually Boss, come over to my place, and I'll introduce you to my solution."

An hour later, because not even Ben and Eric can evade LA traffic at rush hour, I find myself knocking on Bella's door.

_Knocking on heaven's door, Cullen?_

"Hello again, Boss. How was your day?" she says, smiling genially at me.

"Long and boring, B. It's good to see you."

"Come on, don't be whiny, we had lunch together."

True. Morton's again. We return to the scene of the crime every now and then, and now we don't give a fuck about the throng of paps waiting outside. Bella's existence is already old news in this ephemeral city, and all the more in this volatile business, but apparently candid shots of yours truly sipping Italian wine are always in high demand.

"How come everyone at the studio asked me where in the heck you were today, and they didn't give a rat's ass about me?" I retort, without even trying to tone down my irritation.

True, again. Every single person on the crew asked about Bella, and while I smugly took all their compliments for her stellar performance, I couldn't help being jealous that they, too, are aware of her talents and claim her attention.

She shrugs and blushes. Ever the modest, humble one, she doesn't take praise in stride.

"I may have helped out one or two of Demetri's guys. No biggie."

_What does she mean, she 'helped them out'?_

"Do I need to remind you that you're _my_ assistant, B?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, aren't we grouchy today? I may have suggested to the sound guys to check out a couple of bands for the soundtrack, at least until they can get a hold of Matt."

I don't follow her, and I'm slightly miffed that she knows more than I do about the film _I'm_ doing. "Matt who?"

"Matt Bellamy, Boss, from Muse? The band that's been contributing songs to each and every one of the films in the franchise?"

"Oh. That one." My tone is unabashedly sour. She's on first name terms with this 'Matt' guy, who's a rock star of epic proportions. Heck, I think this chap signs more autographs than I do.

_Fuck, Cullen, this sounds bad._

"B, care to enlighten me? How well do you know this guy?"

"The sound guy? I met him at the studio," she answers as she's rummaging through a cupboard, trying to find her favourite mug. She's making me sweat for this.

_You'd rather she made you sweat for things that don't contemplate talking, Cullen._

"No, B. Matt Bellamy. Is there a good reason you're on first name terms with a rock star?"

"Am I contractually bound to disclose any and all A-listers I am personally acquainted with?"

Crap, legal jargon. She jumps the corporate guns to put my back against the wall but she has no idea (how can she?) what it actually does to me. Bella is in work clothes, still dressed to the nines, from her tell-tale, red-soled stiletto heels, glasses still in place, to her long hair loosely tied with a pencil (go figure), and she's firing away legal crap on my sorry ass, with a sentence that contains the word '_bound_'.

I'm a goner. She has no idea how fucking hot that shit sounds to me, and I'm suddenly thankful that we're sitting at the kitchen island, which mercifully hides my gigantic boner from her close scrutiny.

_Though you'd love her to perform some close__r scrutiny on that, Cullen. Don't lie to yourself._

Then she blushes and becomes suddenly very interested in a loose thread in her sweater.

"B? The rock star?"

"Well…it's just…I've known Matt for years, Edward. Even before the hype about them began," she finally says, dismissively.

Crap. She's friends with a rock star.

_You're screwed, Cullen. So screwed._

"I met him through Jasper. They dabbled in music together for a while… Well, Jasper dabbled, but then he chose the law, and Matt chose his Kaoss Pad."

She talks about music and corporate law with the same consummate ease. How hot is that? If I was a goner five minutes ago, that's the final nail in my coffin.

_And she's a bad-ass rider, Cullen. Don't forget that._

Bella seems uneasy at this new turn in the conversation, and the hairs on the nape of my neck are suddenly prickling, as if on red alert. My innate danger meter is going through the roof. Something's off. I get the distinct impression that she's purposely withholding information from me.

Is there something she doesn't want me to know? Did they date? Do I need to throttle a rock star? I don't need visuals of Bella and a multiple MTV Award winning rock star, because at this point I'm pretty certain that my caveman instincts would go on overdrive.

"B, I thought we had a solution to my six-pack problem," I say, abruptly changing the subject.

Bella doesn't notice, or blatantly ignores, my petty avoidance technique and proceeds to place her customary Starbucks mug on the counter and plops down on her stool.

"Right, Boss. Our solution is about to appear, but if this weirds you out in any way, you need to tell me, and we'll find an alternative."

As I'm about to ask why I should be weirded out by any solution of hers, I hear the front door slam shut and the loud thud of something falling to the floor. This is followed by Emmett's noisy and cheerful entrance.

He bellows his greetings to both Bella and me and then, after grabbing a carton of orange juice from the fridge, he sits down next to Bella and plants a sloppy, childlike peck on the top of her head. I wonder whether he's so openly affectionate to her all the time, or whether he just does this to irk me. Knowing Em, probably the latter.

"Hi, Eddie." Yes, whatever it is, he's doing this to irk me.

"Em, please. Behave." Bella scolds him, playfully smacking his forearm.

"Right, BeeBee. You said it was important. I left Matt Damon running laps at Griffiths Park alone to hurry back here. Fire away."

"Boss here needs to bulk up a bit for his next flick, bro. Interested?"

Emmett raises a bushy eyebrow at me and looks at me from head to toe or, at least, at as much of me as he can see, from my perch on the kitchen stool. Then, he returns his gaze to Bella.

"BeeBee, how long till filming begins?"

"Three to four months, Em. We're looking at a March/April shoot in Vancouver."

"Feasible. How does he feel about some serious butt kicking?"

Obviously, Linebacker Em would be Bella's first port of call, and I'm a moron for not figuring this out earlier. I'm slightly irritated, though, by the fact that they're discussing my future muscular mass as if I'm not here.

"_HE_ is right here and can still speak for himself, fuck you very much," I retort, trying to get their attention.

They both chuckle. Bella flashes me a devious smile and a raised eyebrow, whilst Emmett turns to face me again.

"I'm not gonna go easy on you, Eddie. Are you up for this?"

"I kinda have no choice, Em."

"Wow, kid, curb the enthusiasm a bit, will ya?" he quips, picking on my evident discomfort.

"Em, the truth is that I'm not an incredibly sporty person, but I'm a hard worker, and I can keep up with a schedule. At least, now that I actually know how to do that. Just tell me what I need to do."

Bella eyes me seriously and steps in before Em can answer.

"Boss, my condition still stands. Are you ok with this?"

Automatically, my hand reaches across the table to squeeze hers. It's a recent learned habit of mine. Touching her, no matter how briefly, soothes away my doubts and hers, whenever I'm uneasy or tense, or whenever I feel that she's doubting herself for any reason.

_Oh, that's your latest excuse to be grabby, Cullen?_

Emmett's eyes land on our linked hands like a hawk's but, wisely, he doesn't comment. I bet he's going to annoy Bella later over this.

"Yes, B. I'm in. It's a pretty brilliant solution."

True, again. Emmett's a friend, and it won't make me uncomfortable to admit my physical ineptitude to him.

_He's also her brother, Cullen. Disinterested choice, much?_

"All right, but, for the record, don't ever say I didn't warn you," she concedes, actually waving a disapproving finger at me in mock reproach.

"If you two are done smooching, I'd like to get down to business. I've got a lame actor to train."

"Hey!" My eyes are about to bulge out of their sockets. Did Emmett really just say that? Does he want me dead? Does he want Bella to kill me and bury my corpse in the backyard?

Bella abruptly removes her hand from mine and descends from her stool. She discards her empty mug in the sink and paces away from the kitchen without a word. Weird.

She comes back a few minutes later, and the only things that are unchanged about her appearance are the pencil sticking out of the messy bun on her head, and her glasses. She's shed her armour, and is now padding towards Emmett barefoot, in a grey tank top and yoga pants.

The absence of heels and designer clothes does absolutely nothing to abate the snug situation in my nether regions. One day, she will unwittingly be the cause of my untimely and painful demise.

_Death by UST? Is that the inscription you want on your tombstone, Cullen?_

"You ok here, Boss, with your new Nazi-trainer?"

I can only manage to nod. Words are failing me. Emmett raises yet another eyebrow. Training with him is going to be brutal, not just because he'll make me work out until I wish I were dead, but also because he knows pretty well that yours truly wants to round some bases with his baby sister.

_You wouldn't mind a home run, either, Cullen…_

"BeeBee, we've not discussed what sort of training Eddie needs. Do you have a minute for me?"

"I do, but I'm sure you can go over this with Edward. I didn't even talk to the director yet, so he definitely knows more than I do."

Emmett does not relent. "I'm pretty sure you know what's in his contract, BeeBee, so I need to know what he can or cannot do, and what will make those nasty producers happy. Help a brother out here, Hot Stuff?"

_Hot Stuff? Is that even an appropriate nickname for a sibling?_

"Alright, Emmie. Ten minutes. Fire away," she finally concedes, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

I'm still pretty useless to this conversation, but I'm highly entertained by their exchange as they talk about allowed and prohibited sports activities in actors' contracts. Emmett reminisces about training Orlando Bloom, who used to argue that bungee jumping should be considered '_allowed_' and not '_excessively dangerous_' because it trains actors to handle adrenaline rushes for when they're actually doing their own stunts. Interesting theory, that I'm not particularly interested in testing.

I'm sort of awed at the immense web of connections that Emmett can boast in showbiz. Then his Nazi-trainer persona takes over and he commands, out of the blue, "Edward, take off your shirt."

_What the fuck? In the middle of Bella's kitchen?_

Bella's staring wide-eyed at Emmett, and she's glaring. I gather that this is not part of Emmett's standard operating procedure.

"Eddie, take off your shirt, I need to know what I'm working with. You need an eight-pack in four months, for fuck's sake. Let me do my job."

Emmett is pretty commandeering. I guess it's a family trait. Bella's eyes are wandering everywhere but in my immediate direction.

"Right, that's my cue to leave, guys," she says, turning to the living room.

Emmett tries to stop her. "BeeBee, leaving so soon?"

"I actually have work to do, Emmie. Now leave me alone."

She is pissed. 'Emmie' is definitely overstepping some invisible mark but, in typical Emmett-fashion, he shamelessly sidetracks Bella.

"Sis, do you mean '_work_' or '_work-work_'?" He asks, stressing the '_work-work_' thingy as if it was a sort of secret code.

Interesting.

Bella relents minutely but does not return to the kitchen and, instead, calls over her shoulder, "Work-work, Emmie. I'll be walled up in my office for a few hours."

"Which means you'll be skipping dinner, BeeBee. You'll overcook yourself up there. I'm taking you out to dinner, and that's non-negotiable. Four hours, tops. That's the most I can give you."

"Aye, aye, Captain. I'll see you later."

Crap. I thought I'd take her out to dinner tonight, to celebrate the move, but Emmett has blown my chance. I can't even throttle him because I need my PT and he's twice my size, to boot.

Three hours later, I'm still working out in Emmett's gym, for a number of embarrassing reasons. First, I'm a complete pushover, whenever given the chance to hover in Bella's immediate vicinity. Second, I sadly have nothing better to do. Emmett and Bella are as good as my only friends in LA, and I'd probably be hanging out with Emmett anyway. Third, I'm itching for Bella to appear out of the blue, because I want her to see me like this.

_As in, sweaty and scantily clad, Cullen? Smooth._

Right on cue, a while later she does saunter towards Emmett. The faithful pencil still strives to hold up her messy locks, though a handful of strands are cascading down her forehead. She's nervously twisting one of said strands with her fingers, while balancing her faithful fountain pen, a black notebook and a few sheets of paper in her other hand. How she manages to do that, while pulling her hair, is completely beyond me.

I feign indifference and continue to sweat my ass off on Emmett's infernal workout machines but, in my peripheral vision, I see her approaching.

Thanks to a lucky twist of fate, I've completed my reps just now and I should move to the treadmill for a 'refreshing' run, as Em put it. The treadmill happens to be located right next to my Nazi-trainer and Bella, which enables me to eavesdrop on their conversation without appearing too much of a nosy stalker.

_Back to your stalker ways, Cullen?_

I start my 3-mile jog (and Em said he was going easy on me this time around), just as Bella is tapping on Em's shoulder, not without some difficulty. Bella's rather petite, and if I tower over her by a foot, Em is completely off limits to her.

"Emmie, I need a second opinion on something."

Em smiles at her, noticing the papers in her hands.

"Sure, BeeBee, anytime. What's shaking?"

Bella's fingers deftly shuffle through the pages of her notebook, till she finds what she wants and points it out to Emmett with her fountain pen.

"Read that, Emmie, and tell me what you think," she says, suddenly serious.

Ever the invisible man, I continue to jog, but keep an eye and ear on them all the time. Emmett's eyebrows scrunch up in concentration as he's reading whatever Bella's shown him.

"This is good, BeeBee, what's wrong with it?"

It's Bella's turn to furrow her brows, but in frustration. She has the same look she gives me when something doesn't turn out as it's supposed to. She appears conflicted over something.

"Yep, well…thanks…Em, but….isn't _this _more like it?" she retorts, shoving a sheet of paper under his nose. Em grabs it, and his eyes peruse it with rapt attention. I've never seen Em so caught up in something, and it's something Bella did.

_Wait a second, Cullen, you idiot! It's something Bella wrote!_

My realisation is shaken by Em's sudden thunderous laugh. "Well, if this isn't priceless, Hot Stuff!" he bellows.

Bella's beaming up at him, visibly excited. "I take it you like it, Emmie?"

"Like it? I love it! That's exactly what happened. Keep this one and toss the other, Hot Stuff."

Bella's smile is blinding. Every time I think she couldn't be more glorious, I see her light up and soar for something, and I'm at a loss for words to describe the emotion that brightens up her whole face. I also feel incredibly left out, because I have no part in it, nor do I even know what it is that makes her so happy.

Then, she stands up on her toes to plant a noisy peck on Em's cheek. "Thank you, Emmie."

_Jealous of another man's cheek, Cullen? Of her brother's cheek, at that? Pathetic…_

Meanwhile, Bella turns to me, effectively shaking me out of my musings.

"Boss?"

"Hhmm?" I grunt, because I'm running my final mile and that's all I can muster.

"You need to call Alice back once you're done."

I grunt again in reply as she disappears towards the stairs. Emmett bellows at her retreating form.

"BeeBee, no more work-work now. I mean it. Shower and then Gladstone's. In half an hour."

"Aye, Aye, Captain," she quips, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder.

"Ummpf…" I groan, as I collapse on the treadmill, floored only partially by my work-out.

Emmett laughs at my predicament and then comments, his eyes glinting with mischief, "Yes, she's a piece of work."

"But she's worth it," I counter, before my non-existent verbal filter can kick in.

_BCG's POV_

The first three weeks of December definitely take a toll on my energy and my sanity.

Edward is working more than ever, and I follow suit. He refuses to leave me behind and, just like this, I'm stuck at his side as he goes through all the motions of pre-production. All the while, I'm keeping the boat afloat with an infinite series of daily chores that Edward is blissfully ignorant of.

More than anything else, what keeps me up at night has nothing to do with Edward's work. I know very well that Ang has forbidden me to touch up my manuscript until I meet the two important guys, and that's exactly what I am trying to do.

Unexpectedly, this city and my new life have triggered my creativity and I find it hard to hold back. I've started working on another story, and writing has never come so easily before, that I would be a fool not to jump at the opportunity of, literally, putting pen to paper to see where this leads me.

Emmett is thrilled to know that I might have some shot at getting published but, in true Emmett fashion, he is ready to shout it out loud from the rooftops. Me? Not so much.

Most of the time, I manage to keep him quiet, but every now and then, he brings it up again. We're sitting at one of Gladstone's familiar, run-down booths, working our way through two of their gigantic Maine lobsters.

"I don't understand it, BeeBee," he says, reaching for his beer.

"What is it that you don't understand, Em?" I know I'm playing dumb, but I need to buy some time, and I want to eat my lobster in peace.

"Why are you keeping Edward in the dark?"

I raise an eyebrow. Now, if that isn't a multi-faceted question…

"About what, in particular?"

He scoffs. "Damn, BeeBee, what is this? An FBI interrogation? Do you want me to say it out loud? Do I need to spell it?"

My half-eaten lobster claw clatters down on the platter. I never thought I'd get the equivalent of a tongue-lashing from my own brother.

"Emmett, I'm not being deliberately secretive."

Em throws me a knowing, yet disbelieving look.

"OK, maybe I am. Just a little. But consider my perspective…"

"I'm all ears, BeeBee", he says, sarcastically.

I take another swig of my beer and then brace myself to answer him.

"I'm doing this on my own time, Em. I work my ass off for the guy - 14 hours a day - and I'm doing this off the clock. It's my own side project, and I don't really think that Edward is entitled to know…yet. Besides…"

Emmett frowns. My brother has something to say.

"Don't talk about Edward as if he were some random asshole of a lawyer in a pinstriped suit, Bella. You know it's not like that with him."

Em's tone is stern and serious and, before I can steel myself, I feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I avert my gaze from him, hoping he doesn't notice my downfall.

Instead, he silently motions for me to continue.

"I don't want to jinx it. What if this all falls through? I don't want him to look down on me as a failure."

"Oh, for fuck's sake…" mutters Em. "That kid worships the ground beneath your feet, Hot Stuff. He'd never think of you as a failure, don't you see it?"

Em's statement does hit a bit too close to home, though. I wonder why everything related to Edward, even in the most remote and convoluted way, boils down to this, to hitting too close for comfort. Mine, of course.

"All the same, Em...How do you think he'd react if he knew? Let's hear it, o wise one…" I quip, pouring my daily quota of sarcasm into a single sentence.

"He'd be over the moon. He'd be proud. He'd do anything in his power to…"

"And that's exactly why I don't want him to know! It's…" I trail off, unable to give a coherent shape to my jumbled thoughts. "He'd try to step in, he'd do it to help, because it's how he is, but I need to achieve this on my own."

Em reluctantly nods. I may or may not have gotten my point across to him.

"All right, BeeBee. I see your point. Besides, he'd probably freak out and think you'd want to quit. He'd have a coronary."

"At 25? I doubt it, Em. But on one count, you are absolutely right."

"You're saying I'm right about something?" he stage-whispers, evidently and utterly astonished.

"Yep, I know, shocking. But yes, I think you have a point…"

He's fiddling with his phone and I want to know what he's doing.

"I'm marking this day in my calendar. Next year I want to celebrate, BeeBee. The Day Bella Said I Was Right."

I can't help the full belly laugh that ensues.

"Em, you really are something…" I trail off, at last, after my laughing fit has subsided.

"Yeah, Rose sort of said that…" he grins, as I smack his arm.

"Emmett! Don't you want to know why you are right?"

He stares pensively at me, or at least, as pensive as he can look after a lobster feast bathed in beer.

"Let me guess, he's gonna be pissed when he finds out?"

I nod, pinching the bridge of my nose. Edward will really throw a fit when he finds out I've kept something from him.

A week later, I'm speaking with Alice, during one of our now countless phone calls. Alice is leaving Milan to return to London in two days, and Edward will join her on the following day, just after Angela's Christmas bash.

Alice is badgering me, and has been for days, because she wants to know if I already have a dress for the party.

"Alice, is this the only reason you're calling, at what is supposed to be an ungodly hour in Milan?"

I've sort of become a steady intermediary between Edward and Alice, who has almost stopped calling her brother, only to harass me instead. Edward is beyond jealous, because his sister prefers talking to me instead of '_her own blood_', as Edward has it, complete with his best whiny pout. Alice, on the contrary, is overjoyed, because someone finally knows what he's up to and is finally '_putting my obnoxious sibling in place_'.

Apart from the fact that she makes coffee nervous and quicksilver lame and slow, I genuinely like Alice. Alice is a little firecracker, and I've come to know her over the last few weeks. She is the sort of girl I could hang out with, if she didn't currently live several time zones away from me.

We're becoming good friends, long-distance friends, and she has actually learned things about me that Edward still ignores. She has a way of weaselling information out of mw much better than a drink spiked with Veritaserum would.

"No, BeeBee, I wanted to tell you that mum's and dad's Christmas gifts are taken care of, so Edward doesn't have to worry about it."

"Thanks, Alice. I really appreciate the gesture, you might have just taken an item or two off my to do list."

She gasps in horror. "Please, tell me that the lazy scumbag I share my last name with didn't want you to do his own Christmas shopping in his place. If he did, I'll throttle him and drown him in dark water under Blackfriars' Bridge."

I chuckle. Alice knows her older brother very well.

"He tried, Alice. I resisted. End of story."

"How did you do that?" She sounds suddenly intrigued.

"I merely mentioned that you might have some good ideas already, and that there was no chance in hell I'd go and buy his mum's Christmas present. I sort of played the guilt trip card, but I also kept a couple of ideas on the backburner, just in case…I guess it worked."

Alice laughs through the phone. "Of course it did! You're a genius, BeeBee! Edward is a mama's boy, if I ever saw one. Now, BeeBee, let's get down to business."

This is ominous. Alice Cullen talking about business is bad news for the likes of me.

"Alice, why do I get the feeling that you'll do what you're about to do, no matter what I try to say?"

"Because you know me, Isabella Swan. Now listen to me and don't be a brat," she says, with a mock-bossy tone.

"Yes, m'am," I joke back.

"Right. Now, power up your laptop, download your email, click on my latest one, open the attachment, sit back and relax."

I follow her orders to a 'T' and, when I open the attachment to her email, I see the picture of a gorgeous dress. It's off-white, all flowers and petals in pinkish, cream and violet hues, and it's made of a floaty and airy material. Chiffon? Silk?

Fashion is not my line of work, but my mom is, after all, a fashion photographer. By now, I know _haute couture_ when I see it, and the picture of this dress does ring a bell or two.

I'm also speechless, because the dress is beautiful, original and looks…so _me_. I like it. I like it a whole damn lot.

"Alice, would it be right to assume that I may have seen this dress somewhere before?"

"Oh, my god, I knew we were friends for a reason, BeeBee. And the answer to your question is 'yes'".

Alice doesn't mince words, as a rule, and the fact that she's so telegraphic is very suspicious.

"Alice, spit it out. Whatever it is that you're hiding, spill it. Now." I say, in my best authoritative, commandeering voice.

She whistles through the phone. Alice Cullen can whistle. The end of the world is near.

"Do you ever use that tone with my brother, BeeBee?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Often," I quip, not sure at all where this is going.

"Wow, I bet he jizzes his pants every time."

I'm dumbstruck, shell-shocked, flabbergasted. Did she really just say that?

"Alice, do you want to embarrass the shit out of me, or are you just trying to sidetrack me?" I croak, quite unable to retrieve a more assertive tone.

"Mmmm…" she says, vaguely, "…bit of this, bit of that…"

I heave an uneasy sigh. By now, I know that Alice is up to something, and this something is certainly no good. Then a light bulb flashes in my brain.

"Alice, this dress is from last year's Armani collection. There is no way I'll be able to get that…now."

She clears her throat. I knew it. She's hiding something.

"Gotcha, Alice Cullen. Now spill the beans."

"Yes, well…actually, BeeBee, there's a garment bag with your name on it, and this dress inside it, waiting for you at the Giorgio Armani boutique on Rodeo Drive." She sounds bashful, as if she knew I'd go berserk for something like this.

"Alice…how in heck did you…? And how do you think I can….? Crap, Alice, that dress must come with a price tag that could settle the national debt of a medium-sized African state..."

There must be an explanation to this, and I want it now, because it looks like Alice has been hiding plenty from me…or maybe I'm too much of an idiot to be able to still put two and two together.

"Alice…are you still alive out there? Care to answer any of my questions?"

She clears her throat again. "Yes, well…BeeBee…I have something to tell you."

The six most dreaded words in the English language, a close second to 'we need to talk'.

"Alice, spit it out already. You're giving me the creeps."

"There will be no price tag on this dress, BeeBee," she whispers.

"Alice, even if it's yours, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, there's no way in hell I can fit into your clothes."

"It's not mine, not in the way you mean."

Okay. Rational explanation number one is busted. Not that I have a rational explanation number two up my sleeve.

"All right, BeeBee. But don't freak out, and don't get pissed at me." She says, at the speed of lightning. She knows I will freak out and I will be pissed. The disclaimer is pointless.

"There is no price tag because it's a house sample, BeeBee, and it's mine because I designed it," Alice finally admits, with a barely contained smug undertone to her voice.

The conniving little thing…but then it means…My brain can still put two and two together, after all.

Alice is a junior designer to _the_ Giorgio Armani in Milan, the one and only.

"Alice, why am I finding out just now that you work for Mr G? Why did you never bother to tell me before?"

When Alice is nervous, she speaks at the speed of lightning. I can't see her through the phone, but I'm pretty sure she is also fidgeting, jumping here and there like a cricket on crack.

"Well, BeeBee, I didn't want to brag, and I didn't want you to…you know, get nervous with the fact that…oh, blimey…you're not angry about the dress, are you?"

I heave a deep sigh, trying to wrap my mind around this turn of events.

"No, Alice, I'm not angry about the dress. God, I love it."

"So you'll wear it? For me? Please?"

I can't see her, but I'm pretty sure she's got that lost puppy look on her face right now, because it's the same whiny look Edward has when he's trying to get his way about something. DNA is a real bitch sometimes, and I have no equipment to resist the Cullen charm, whether in person or through the merciful filter of a transcontinental phone call.

"Of course I'll wear it, Alice."

She squeals through the phone. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, BeeBee! I told her you'd wear it, but she wouldn't believe me!"

Then it all clicks into place but, before I really freak out, there's one more question I need to ask.

"Alice, I remember a photo shoot of that dress for last year's campaign. It was gorgeous."

I am stroking her creative ego again, and I'm baiting her at the same time. I've just remembered that Renee did that particular photo shoot and, knowing how anal-retentive Alice is when it comes to her own designs, I can imagine that she must have pestered Renee to no end during those photo sessions.

"Why, thank you, BeeBee. I loved it, though I had to wrestle with the photographer to get my way. She wasn't easily convinced, but she came around. Eventually."

Alice sounds vaguely hesitant, but takes my shameless flattery in stride. I am the one who has trouble retorting this time, because I was right.

Crap. Holy crap. Double crap with whipped cream. Alice knows my mother. I'm busted.

* * *

**PIMP MY FIC CORNER**

Story that's been owning me of late: The Price of a Broken Heart, by MrsEdwardCullenP. Link: http : / www . fanfiction . net /s/6202537/9/

Summary: 12 years without a word. It took so little for her to leave me. And now... of all the hospital rooms in the whole country, why did she have to walk into mine? "Get the f- out of here," I spat.

This is a rollercoaster that puts me on edge at every update, and Pen knows it because I pester her every time with my reviews. I am a very impatient reader and let me tell you, this will get you hooked from day one.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: OK, get your A/C on, even if we're in November, because the temperature here is about to rise dramatically. Just sayin'...

The girls with the red pencil behind this, who school my rogue commas and inconsistency back into plain English are, as usual, Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe. They all rock!

A big thank you to my sisters in crime Lory and Debbie for still holding my hand. Lory should be very happy about this chapter if she doesn't kill me first.

Shout-out for this week: my little brother Dave, who's running the New York City Marathon and, of course, all the regulars out there. VacantWard is really touched by your support.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 15**

_[December 20/21] – Edward_

Thirty-six hours. I have only thirty-six hours left to spend with Bella before I fly back to London for Christmas.

I used to love Christmas as a kid, my mum always made such a big affair of it and, with a party animal like Alice in the house, there was no way it would ever go down quietly at the Cullens'.

Growing up, I still loved it, because it meant home. Wherever I was, I'd get to go home and see my family. For the last three years, it meant that I'd get back to London and to a certain degree of anonymity, just hanging out with Alice and my friends. No security guards or throngs of squealing fans.

Suddenly, this year I hate Christmas. This Christmas will take me away from Bella, and there is nothing I can do about it. It will be the first time in nine months that I get to board a business class flight, and I will be alone. No Business Class Girl at my side or even on the same plane.

I can't very well get away with whining and order her to follow me to London instead. Just because she puts up with my antics, it doesn't mean she wouldn't pick up on an obsessive compulsive behaviour on my part. She'd consider the problem, talk me out of it and call a shrink, because that's what she does. She fixes my problems, whatever they are.

I don't want her to fix this problem. I just want to stay with her, because I can't bear to be stuck in my parents' house in South London for the next six weeks. Alice will be grilling me all the time about her and my mum will follow suit. Then my dad will throw in his tuppence, because of course, he'll have met up with uncle Russ a couple of times and they will have put two and two together. By the end, all of them will be laughing their arses off behind my back.

I know I'm whining and rambling; all the same, I can't bear to ruin Bella's holidays. She isn't talking too much about it, but I can see a change in her demeanour. She has a light bounce in her step, she smiles a lot more, she is relaxed and jokes all the time. She has even ditched her signature sarcastic answers and, every time I behave like a spoiled brat, she just shakes her head and chuckles, and lets me get away with it.

I don't even dare ask her directly why her mood has improved so dramatically, because I know, hands down, that she'd send me packing, with a vague, well-poised answer that reeks of law-speak from miles away.

_You're dreading what the law-speak would do to your dick, Cullen. Admit it._

My designated victim, this time around, is dear old Emmett. Since I have to suffer through his merciless training sessions (and I have the beginnings of a perfectly toned six-pack to show for it), I should try to get some perks out of this, such as getting some insider information.

It's not like I even have to question him, deceive him, or pull some FBI-worthy tricks on him. This is a sheer stroke of luck, because, let's face it, clueless old me wouldn't know how to do subtle, not even with a 'Subtle for Dummies' handbook.

Emmett is looking forward to Christmas like a five-year-old, partly because, as Bella so eloquently put it: '_he is a five-year-old_', but mostly because the holidays mean that Rosalie and Jasper will be spending Christmas with Bella and him.

The dire irony of this situation doesn't escape me for a second. Emmett gets his girl back, and I get to lose mine.

_Except, Cullen, that she's not your girl yet, and may never be._

This is how, a mere day before the big Christmas party at Angela's house, I find myself cooped up in the gym with Emmett, still running miles and miles on the treadmill. I run, he talks. Easy.

"I'm really happy that Jazz and Rosie are coming over, we'll have a real blast," gushes Emmett, who can't keep still for a second to save his life.

I grunt my answer, unable to hide my disappointment, and happy that my impaired ability to breathe freely allows me to get away with being rude and grumpy.

"They've been our surrogate family for years, well, since BeeBee met them at Oxford…and our parents, well, they…" Emmett trails off.

I sense we're approaching quicksand, if even Emmett can't blurt it out freely. I stop running and turn to him, my face suddenly serious.

"Emmett, may I just ask…"

"Yeah, man, go ahead and say it. Where the fuck are they?" Emmett sounds angry.

"I thought your mum lived in Milan…" Or at least, that's what Bella told me.

Emmett shakes his head, averting his eyes from me.

"That would be BeeBee's mom. My mom…she's dead. She died when I was a kid."

I scrunch up my eyebrows, utterly confused by this revelation. It seems that Bella's family life is a lot more complicated than I thought. Without a word, I motion for Em to go on with his tale, since he doesn't look like he's shutting up any time soon.

"I was five years old, and my dad was deployed in Europe. He was transferred to one of the bases in Italy, and that's where he met BeeBee's mom. They got married, and two years later there came BeeBee."

"And?" I can't help asking. All this talk about being deployed, and being transferred, is ringing a few bells.

"And it didn't last. Don't get me wrong - Renee is a good person, but she's flighty. She couldn't put up with the life she was supposed to lead with my dad. One day, she'd had enough and went back to her family, with two-year-old BeeBee in tow."

"Emmett, what's your dad's profession?" I know I must sound like a complete idiot, but by now I need to get all the pieces together.

"Eddie, my dad is a senior officer in Her Majesty's Navy, deployed to NATO bases all over Europe for all his life. We lived like nomads, and Renee wouldn't put up with the confines of being an soldier's wife."

_Ouch, Cullen, HM Navy? That would explain the Dartmouth training gear…_

This is the longest and most serious talk I've ever had with Emmett, and questions keep popping up in my head. I'm thankful that Bella herself is nowhere to be seen, because she would no doubt see this as an unmitigated breach of her privacy.

_Of course it is, Cullen._

"And what about Bella? What happened to her? Who took care of her?" I fire away quickly, my voice clipped and anxious.

Emmett heaves a deep sigh, and then answers me, bracing his hands on the treadmill bar.

"She lived in Italy with Renee. My dad paid for her education, until it was time for her to go to university…then she put her foot down, because she wanted to leave Italy for good. It was her decision to go to England. She wanted so badly to get into Oxford that she worked her ass off all through high school. Although…" Emmett trails off again, looking bashful.

"What's wrong, Emmett?"

"My sister bowled my world over the day she was born," he says, his voice low, a half-dreamy, half-guilty look on his face. "I was a snotty seven-year-old who thought that girls had cooties. When my dad dragged me to the hospital, I was in for a surprise. I looked once at this cute, rosy little thing and…" he trails off briefly and then continues, "…and without warning, she smiled at me, or I thought she did. She owned me, from day one," he ends, on a serious note.

"Emmett, what happened…you know, after?" I ask, my resolve and my voice wavering. I'm probably crossing every possible boundary of Bella's privacy.

"Eddie, fuck, I hardly ever saw her. From the day she turned two years old, to the day she took up residence in Oxford, I didn't celebrate a birthday, a Christmas, a fucking Hallowe'en with her. I missed her. I failed her and now…"

Whoa. Talk about life-altering revelations. This explains a lot of Emmett's big brother behaviour. He is making up for lost time. Until Alice moved to Milan three years ago, I have lived in close and sometimes annoying proximity with her for most of my life and we are thick as thieves, even now that we live worlds apart. That's why I can't even imagine what it must have been like for Emmett to live away from Bella all these years.

"Emmett, do you mean to tell me…that you never lived with Bella before now?"

He shakes his head again. "No, never for long, and never with any degree of permanence. I visited her a lot when she was at Oxford but, being the jerk that I am, she wasn't even my main motivation. I was trying to get into Rosie's pants, you see, but she wouldn't give me the time of day. So I persisted…and persisted…and persisted."

And just like that, the mere mention of Rosalie's name shifts the tone of the conversation. Gone is serious, remorseful, soul-searching Emmett, enter eyebrow-waggling Emmett. I swat his arm, trying to stop him before he ventures into TMI-Land.

"And where the heck did you live, all that time?" I ask, because I still have some blanks to fill in. I also sound slightly irritated. Hell, he left Bella to fend for herself all those years.

"Charlie wanted me to go to college in England, too, but I've never really stomached the prim and proper atmosphere of your Harry Potter schools," he sneers, and then catches himself, realising that yours truly attended one such school for years.

"Sorry, man, no offence. My mom was American, so I went to school here in LA, till I busted my knee and ruined my chances to play in the NFL."

I nod, while I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this and I realise that some pieces are still missing. What strikes me most, though, is that Emmett and Bella are content with spending Christmas with their closest friends, and don't seem to regret the absence of their parents from the picture. This is a far cry from Christmas at the Cullens', a far cry indeed.

A few hours later, after one of Emmett's very satisfying steaks on the deck of the Swan siblings' house, I'm padding back to my own humble abode to finally crash.

Dinner was fantastic, but Bella bailed. She called Emmett to say she'd stay out with Angela, and I lingered after dinner in hopes of catching a glimpse of her, but had no such luck.

Strange. No matter how long the day gets to be, Bella always makes a point of getting back home for dinner. The fact that she's going out with Angela instead does make me suspicious. Emmett is unfazed, though, which slightly mellows me out and persuades me to write this off as a 'girls night'.

I barely have the time to shut the door behind me, when my phone goes off, loud and shrill. I answer without thinking. Since it's not Bella's ringtone, I basically don't care who's calling.

"Yes?"

"Is that the polite manner to greet your only sister?"

Crap. It's Alice. I brace myself.

"Sorry, Alice, I just got home and answered without looking," I blurt out, fumbling with my keys to back up my story.

"Yeah, or you didn't care who was stepping on your nuts, because you knew bloody well it wasn't Bella calling…" she giggles, fully aware that she's called my bluff.

I groan, defeated, but somehow pleased that my sister still puts up with my antics, as much as Bella does.

"I should be pissed with you for saying that, but I'm not…" I tell her instead, fully aware that stroking Alice's ego always appeases her.

"Edward, I really love you, you're my only brother, but I need to bolt and run to the airport in two hours, so let's keep this quick, right?"

I sigh. I understand her perfectly, and I am, once again, thankful that she is cramming into her tight schedule the time for a psychiatric help session with her obsessive compulsive, clueless, lovesick brother.

_Lovesick, Cullen? Didn't you want into her pants?_

"Right, Alice. Thank you for helping your clueless idiot of a brother. I owe you."

She snickers. "Oh, you'll owe me big time, but not for what you think," she adds suggestively.

I groan, frustrated and nervous. "Bollocks, Alice. I'm dying here, have some mercy."

"Okay, Edward. Now listen to me. Be yourself, there's no need to overdo. That alone would screw you up - she'd know you're up to something."

I nod to myself and hastily retort. "Wait, you mean I can go with my ripped jeans and my Doc Martens?"

She hisses. "Edward, before I hang up on you. Now is not the time to fool around. This is no premiere, but your agent will be there, a lot of business contacts will be there," she starts to enumerate.

"Bella will be there!" I growl back. "That's the only person there that matters to me!"

"For heaven's sake, Edward! I'm not even supposed to tell you this…but…" she sounds anxious.

"What, Alice?"

She sighs. "All right, but this has to go in the vault, because I promised and…look, I promised."

She promised. What? To Whom? This sounds ominous.

"Promised to whom?"

"All right. This is a big night for Bella, it's not just some lame Christmas party with too many Hollywood stars all in the same place. Don't screw this up for her. Don't be an insensitive jerk, or a clueless caveman, or both. If you can, that is."

"Bollocks, sister. No pressure, eh?"

She chuckles, but I can tell she's nervous. "Exactly, no pressure. And the answer is no."

"But I didn't ask any questions," I protest.

"Yet. You are dying to ask why it is such a big night for Bella," she retorts quickly.

_Dammit, Cullen! You're too obvious._

"And….?" I try, in one last-ditch attempt to weasel some information out of her.

"And it's none of your business. Now, find those dark-washed Emporio jeans, the ones from the photo shoot…and the grey shirt…no, the white Ralph Lauren button down…and please, please, please…NO GODFORSAKEN BEANIE!"

Alice is on a fashion high right now, and has wilfully blown any chance I had (if any) to keep questioning her about Bella.

I guess I'm on my own with this one. I'll look dapper and put together, though I will still have no clue what's going on. This should be nothing new to me – having no clue about things – but to be clueless where Bella is concerned…it makes me nervous, scared and irritable.

So this is how, twelve hours later, forsaken and kept in the dark by my own sister, and mulling over all the things no one ever bothers to tell me, I'm nursing my craptastic mood and a beer on the deck of Angela's mansion.

I scan the crowd like a bird of prey, stalking my way among this throng of nameless people, my eyes wandering here and there, restless and hungry, yearning to see one face, one pair of eyes, one mouth, one wonder. Bella.

Where the fuck is she, anyway?

The universe is definitely plotting against me tonight. I've been here for two hours and there's still no sign of her. Now that I think about it, Angela is nowhere to be seen either, which is rather strange for the mistress of the house.

I start second-guessing myself. I should have offered to drive Bella here.

_Moron, her brother is driving her here. You are not needed, Cullen._

We are neighbours, we could have car-pooled.

_In the backseat of the Viper, __seriously?_

I should have called her to check on her.

_Needy much? _

Then, out of the blue, as my vacant stare scans the crowd again, more out of habit by now, I finally spot Angela with two guys I've never seen before. The three of them are standing on the far side of the deck, by the swimming pool. One is a well-built, dark-haired man who looks to be in his early- to mid-thirties. The other guy looks much younger, with sandy blond hair and a dimpled smile. They are both talking animatedly with Angela and they are all looking in the direction of house, as if they were waiting for someone.

Then, Ang waves a hand and, with a mega-watt smile, motions for someone to join them. A cloud of purple and cream appears on the deck, moving in quick, but graceful and steady steps. This vision is none other than my Bella.

_Since when is she yours, Cullen?_

I look at her again and my jaw goes slack. I might have to crouch down to the floor to retrieve it and snap it back in place. I start pacing towards her, but she can't or doesn't see me. She makes a beeline for Angela and the two unidentified guys. Ang salutes her with that silly air-kiss thing she does in public, when she wants to look fashionable, and then motions to the two suits. If they were clad in black, they could be mistaken for FBI agents.

A second later, Bella turns to look at one of the guys, at the taller, older one. She steps back a little, clasping her hand over her mouth, in utter astonishment. I hear an astounded, happy squeal of delight.

_Cullen, did Bella just squeal? What the fuck?_

The tall, dark-haired guy also steps back a little and takes a long, appreciative look at Bella. Too much of an appreciative look for my liking. My inner caveman is blowing dust off his club and is preparing for war. Then, something utterly inexplicable (to me) happens.

Mr. Tall Dark Stranger hugs Bella, and she hugs him back. Then, he lifts her and twirls her around like a doll. Seriously, what the heck is this fucker thinking, getting so stinking handsy with my Bella?

_Wait, Cullen. What if they know each other?_

Bella's laughter echoes in the distance to reach clueless old me. She is talking animatedly to Mr. Tall Dark Stranger and to Angela. The sandy blond-haired guy watches from the side-lines, utterly forgotten.

_Guess you've__ got company tonight, Cullen._

I throw one last, longing look at Bella. She looks utterly breathtaking tonight. I wonder if Alice had something to do with this. Maybe she did. I can't tear my gaze away from her. Her mahogany locks are full and shiny, cascading free down her shoulders. Her dress is indescribably gorgeous, and strapless. Her neck and shoulders are on full display, and my hungry gaze wanders down her curves.

_Guess this visual's just taken the concept of 'raging hard-on' to a whole new level, Cullen._

Her eyes are twinkling with laughter and something else besides. I wonder if she's getting tipsy. I hope Mr. Tall Dark Stranger won't force her to drink white wine, because it gives her a headache.

I move closer, but not enough to attract attention. I step into her field of vision, but she still doesn't see me. After all, I'm just her boss. She's off the clock, having fun. Possibly my only chance of not screwing this up for her is to make myself scarce, and get impossibly plastered.

_Plastered it is, Cullen. Let's find booze._

_BCG's POV [December 21/22]_

Em is speeding along the PCH as the streets, the people and the all-around twinkle of Christmas lights disappears behind us in a colourful blur. We're late for Angela's party, much to my displeasure. I'm feeling uncomfortable in my skin in this unbelievably gorgeous dress and, on top of that, I'm getting performance anxiety.

My freshly lacquered nails are tapping on any available surface and the rhythmic noise finally gets on Em's nerves.

"BeeBee, will you fucking stop that?" he growls, his giant foot stomping on the accelerator, again.

"Sorry, Em…it's just that…tonight…" I stammer, unable to come up with a more coherent answer.

Em shakes his head, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

"I wonder, is it just Ang's Beverly Hills mansion that gets you so nervous every time, or are you actually worrying about something real, for once?" he says, only half-chuckling.

"I told you, Em, there's a lot at stake tonight. What if I make a complete fool of myself in front of those people?"

I am meeting the two guys from the publishing houses that are purportedly interested in my work. Tonight is not just meet and greet, it might pave the way for a brighter future.

"Not possible, Hot Stuff. Not looking like this. Eddie's gonna throw a fit when he sees you!" he comments, waggling his eyebrows.

"What the hell has _Edward_ got to do with this, Emmett? It's my fucking book we're talking about, who the heck cares about my boss right now?" I'm growling, and I'm being very dismissive towards Edward but, at this point, he's ranking very low on the list of my priorities for tonight.

"Whatevs, BeeBee, whatevs," replies Emmett, as he deftly winds the Viper down the slope of Angela's mile-long driveway.

As we cross the threshold, Em does something terribly out of character. He gathers me close to him, and kisses my forehead.

"Little sis, I'm not loitering around to ruin your evening, I'll go mingle. Now go, and charm those guys' pants off."

I open my mouth to protest his last sentiment, but he retorts quickly, "And I don't mean that literally!"

Before I can thank him for the positive reinforcement, he's off to score the first of his ever-present margaritas.

I move my way through the little crowd inside the house, dodge a few unwanted interlopers, and look around trying to spot the hostess herself. Her gaze catches mine first, though, from outside on the deck. Two guys are standing on either side of her, drinking and chatting. These two must be my business meetings for tonight.

While I move closer to them, I'm also scanning the crowd to locate Edward, but to no avail. This is the last I'll see of him for a while, and I want to spend some time with him before he goes home for the holidays.

Eventually, Ang gets a hold of me.

"Bella! There you are, finally!" she exclaims, maybe a little tipsy, as she hugs me quickly and moves to make room for the two guys beside her.

One of them is a lean, youngish bloke with blond hair and blue eyes, and he's smiling shyly at me, his boy-next-door dimples in full view. He's sporting a row of pearly white, perfect teeth, that look straight out of a toothpaste ad. Somehow, he doesn't give the vibe I expected from a publishing shark. A perfect gentleman, he stretches out his hand to shake mine as Angela is introducing him.

"Bella, I'd like to you meet to Michael Newton, from Newton Publishing."

"Please call me Mike, I've heard so much about you, Isabella," he says politely, shaking my hand a tad too long for my liking.

"It's a pleasure Mike. Please, call me Bella," I reply. I'd like to say that I know his publishing house, or I should say his father's, very well, because they've made a bunch of blockbusters in the last year, but Angela cuts me off again, pointing to the other guy.

I only have the time to register this guy's tall, lean and muscular frame, his jet-black hair and his dark blue eyes, before a shock of recognition courses through me. I'm not the only one though, because his eyes are as wide as saucers, too, as we both pace back to stare at each other.

Damn, I know this guy! Like, I know him very well! And I haven't seen him in….five years? Six? It's a small world…

"Marcus? Is that really you?" I hear myself say, through an embarrassing and stunned squeal.

"BeeBee? Oh my gosh!" It's really him. It's Marcus. I nod, incapable of forming words. "It's really, truly you! Let me look at you!"

Angela's gaze waltzes from me to him, back and forth, as if she was watching the final match at Wimbledon from the Queen's box.

Marcus hugs me and I find myself hugging him back. After all, it's a great feeling to be reunited with a fellow troublemaker after almost six years. Then, without warning, he twirls me around like a feather, and I laugh outright. The feeling of seeing him again is exhilarating.

Marcus was Jasper's roommate at Oxford. Of course, he quickly became entangled with everything Jazz, Rose and I used to do. Marcus also played bass guitar in Jazz's band, and happened to be one of the blind dates Jazz set me up with. It worked, for a while…until Marcus graduated, and we fell out of touch, without bitterness, without much drama. We just grew out of each other, and moved on to other things and other people. I never thought I'd see him again, let alone that Angela would know him.

But why is he here, with Angela? He must be the other guy…the other publishing house guy…and from which publishing house? If the Newton kid works for his father's business, then Marcus works for…

"BeeBee, I can hear the click of the wheels turning in your head. Whatever you're stewing over, just say it," he quips, diverted.

"You haven't lost your touch, Mr. Goldsmith…That's refreshing and, of course, it's great to see you. The years have treated you kindly." I can't help teasing him, that's the way we always were.

He smiles genially at me. Funnily enough, Angela and Mike are nowhere to be seen now. I guess I'll catch up with them later.

"BeeBee, you are really a vision. I had no idea you'd be here. So…what I read…at Angela's insistence, I take it…"

"Yes, that's my manuscript, Marcus, but I'm not going to believe you didn't know. And I take it…you work for LB Books, now? Congratulations!"

His face grows serious. "Thanks, BeeBee. I've been very lucky to get this job, I'm where I always wanted to be."

For a split second, I feel a surge of envy towards Marcus, while I ponder whether I could say the same. Am I really where I always wanted to be? Maybe not, but I feel like I'm slowly getting there. Faced with my silence, Marcus keeps talking.

"I really didn't know the manuscript was yours. I always insist on having them codenamed, I don't want my judgement to be clouded by names. If it's bullshit, it doesn't deserve to be printed…"

"Even if the Prime Minister wrote it," I finish the sentence, reliving one of his favourite sayings from our stint at Oxford. He's always been a righteous guy, and I'm pleased to find that he hasn't changed.

He smiles again. "It's just…it's almost surreal to see you again, and to find that…"

"Marcus, what's with the hesitation?"

"BeeBee, listen, if this makes you uncomfortable in any way, if you feel that my judgement will be influenced in any way, I'd rather pass this account to another editor rather than…"

I feel my eyebrows scrunching up. "Hm, that would be a big no for me, Mr. Goldsmith, or should I say Sir Marcus?"

Yes, Marcus is a baronet. It happens in England, and you can't even choose not to be one, if you are born into one of _those_ families. Nonetheless, Marcus always had a rebel streak and hated the mere mention of it. Needless to say, Jazz and I always made a point of using his title as much as we could.

He scoffs, but his eyes look playful. "That's a low blow, BeeBee, but my offer still stands. I'll disappear if you don't want me working on this."

"Marcus, as matters stand, there's nothing to work on. I thought this was only a meet and greet."

I try to snap myself back into business mode. This is an important negotiation, after all.

"True. I see that working with Jasper has turned you into a shark," he says, his tone still playful. Wait, how does he know?

"Have you been keeping tabs on me, Sir Marcus?"

He huffs, and scratches the back of his head with his left hand. He winks and says, trying to sound convincing, "No?"

We both burst out laughing. I can't stay mad at him, he's too funny when he behaves this way.

"You're as lousy a liar as ever. Who told you?"

"It's a small world, BeeBee. Do you know who took your place as Russell Devlin's golfing partner after you left him high and dry?"

"That, again? Am I ever going to live that down?"

He smirks. The bastard knows something. "Marcus, out with it, if you value the finer bits of your anatomy!"

"Oh, and you're as ruthless as ever! My father tried replacing you - that's how I know. Russell sent him packing. Apparently my father's skills are not up to par with yours."

I can't help a small, satisfied chuckle. I guess Russ will have some bones to pick with me next time I'm in London…

"Let's get back to business, Your Lordship. What do you propose, since my agent left _me_ high and dry, now..?"

Marcus recovers from his hearty laugh. His face straightens as he lapses into business mode, too.

"I'll be frank, BeeBee. Not that I have an alternative, you'd call me on my bullshit in a heartbeat. Listen, _we_ really want you on board for this. You'll find the terms to your liking, I'm sure. If they are not, I'll talk to legal and make them to your liking. As I said, _we_ want you on board, and soon."

A thrill courses through me, this could be a breakthrough, this could be my ticket to where I want to be. I did not check my rational side at the door, though, and I have some questions for Marcus.

"Who is _we_? And why should I choose you over Newton Publishing? What's in it for me, for my work?"

Marcus drains his beer and heaves a deep breath before answering me.

"_We_ is the top management. I'm Commissioning Editor, Bella, and I make the choices. The final say is mine, but let's say that the management looks over the major decisions. _You_ are one of those major decisions. You should choose us over Newton because that kid over there doesn't know a book from his portable gaming equipment, and he's in this business because he's his father's son. Besides that, they want you on board for a number of despicable reasons."

I cross my arms in front of me, as my brain turns into full speculative mode. There's a lot of thinking and plotting ahead, and I luckily steered clear of the booze all night.

"Tell me those despicable reasons, why don't you?"

"Right. I guess you could find out, if you put your mind to it, but I'll spare you the digging. They're making big money with filming rights, rather than with publishing _per se_. Every single one of their authors has been encouraged to sell the filming rights to their works, because of the new onslaught of notoriety and reprints the books would get. Luckily for them, they've signed a few readable things, and a lot of crap. But those who wrote the crap are…"

It all clicks into place. I cut Marcus off swiftly. "The ones who wrote the crap are…otherwise associated with the showbiz, and their crap sells itself like Britney's drunken pics on Popsugar and Perez Hilton..."

Marcus nods, smiling proudly at me. "You can say that again. Which prompts me to think, most forcibly, that they actually want to sign you on because…"

"Bollocks, Marcus, because of my boss?" I whisper, utterly shocked, and more than a little disgusted.

"Yes, BeeBee. That would be one of the reasons. That, and there's so much potential in your work that even those imbeciles could see it …" he trails off.

"Marcus, let's leave Newton Publishing out of the question for a minute. I'd much rather know why you want to sign me on. By the way, the fact that we know each other, isn't that going to be a problem for you? To me, it screams conflict of interest from the rooftops…"

He shakes his head, chuckling. "You're never going to lose the lawyer streak, right? Good for you, BeeBee, good for you. I guess it won't be a conflict, if we don't want it to be. Do we want it to be?" he asks, suddenly serious, and I know for a fact that he's referring to a lot more than a book deal. I ponder this for a second.

Could my past with Marcus come back to bite me in the ass? Would I rather he step down from handling this, and end up in the hands of someone else, someone who doesn't know me? Definitely not.

"Marcus, I trust you. I always have. This won't be a problem - you and I know that very well. If anything, try not to kick my ass too much, I have an ego, too, you know."

"Oh yes, you do…and it has its own postcode! So, do you want me to stroke that ego of yours, while I gush about all the genius you've poured into your work?" He counters, still smiling genially at me.

"Marcus, there's an honest half-way between ass-kicking and ass-kissing, you know that, right?"

We fall back into the easy, light-hearted banter we used to share at Oxford without a hitch. We have an almost endless, relaxed and fun-packed conversation, which quickly becomes one of those multi-faceted affairs where you start hundreds of topics and never manage to wrap a single one of them. We both lose track of the time, while we're trying to recap a black-out that lasted several years in one evening. Needless to say, both Angela and Mike Newton are still nowhere to be seen.

After a long while, one of the waiters strides past us with a tray full of champagne flutes. Marcus silently stops him and motions from me to the glasses.

"Does this qualify as white wine? Or can you down a few bubbles, as a celebration?"

"I'll have just the one glass, thank you. I need my wits around me, Sir Marcus," I quip, pleasantly surprised that he still remembers my tastes and quirks so minutely.

"What is there to celebrate?" A velvet, husky voice suddenly whispers in my ear, sending crazed shivers down my spine. I know this voice.

"Edward?"

This is all I manage to croak, my voice shaking in a hushed whisper, as Marcus's stare turns icy and his stern figure seems to tower over Edward. I know Marcus, and I know that look. He is sizing Edward up, and doesn't like what he sees but, being the gentleman that he is, he keeps any and all commentary to himself, and proceeds to take his leave.

"BeeBee, it was nice seeing you again. I've monopolised your time for far too long. We'll arrange a meeting with Angela whenever convenient," he says, his voice level, as he says goodbye with a one-armed hug.

"I'll see you later, Marcus. Don't be a stranger."

"Oh no, BeeBee, not now that I've found you again," he answers, over his shoulder, as he walks away from me.

"What's the celebration for?" Edward's voice is still whispered, his words urgent, but almost slurred. Nonetheless, another shiver that has nothing to do with the December chill runs down my spine.

I haven't felt this exposed all evening. I feel boneless and find that my breaths are becoming increasingly shorter. I turn halfway to look him in the eye, as he is still standing behind me, his frame almost circling me.

"Marcus is…a very old friend, Edward."

"I am sick of your old friends, Bella. They creep up from everywhere," he murmurs, his words icy and spiteful, as he turns to finally face me.

The sight before me almost knocks me breathless to the floor.

I know bloody well what Edward looks like. His face is plastered all over LA, I take care of updating his photo book, I spend countless hours with him on set and at photo shoots and yet... And yet, I've never really allowed myself to have a good look at him. I've never given him a proper once-over, to be perfectly honest. Rosalie would probably have me committed if she knew this. I have countless opportunities to ogle a movie star without being accused of being a stalker or a crazy fangirl, and what do I do? I exert a constant Herculean effort not to do it, on a daily basis, seven days a week.

Jasper always says that I have a masochistic penchant for martyrdom, I think this proves it beyond any reasonable doubt. And yet...why do I do this? Why do I torment myself? I do it because my emotional connection to Edward is already a greater risk than any other I've run into in my life. I don't need to multiply this risk tenfold by basking in his glorious looks.

And yet…He's towering over me now, and I can't help but look. His unruly locks, an undefined shade between golden brown and auburn, are spiked up in ten different directions, no doubt the result of his relentless pulling and raking through them. He must be very nervous tonight. His eyes, which are normally a breathtaking shade of bluish green, are now blazing like wild emeralds, alive and glinting with an emotion I can't pinpoint. The perfect, sculpted planes of his face are hard-set, his trade-mark uneasy frown in full display.

I wouldn't normally dare look beyond this, because I feel trapped and burnt by his keen, almost angry gaze, but I need to regain some composure before I speak again and, to do so, I let my eyes wander past his face, down to his now well-toned figure. He has ditched his usual t-shirt for a crisp, white button down shirt but, strictly in character, he's not wearing a jacket, the first two buttons are undone, and the shirt is un-tucked from his dark-washed jeans. I spy a familiar eagle-shaped logo in a corner of his denims – Emporio Armani. The denims must be a goodie from Alice.

"Look at me, Bella, my eyes are higher up," he says, his voice still painfully husky. This is not helping my resolve and, because I can't figure out what his deal must be, I comply.

"What's wrong, Edward?"

His frown melts away for a second, as his blazing, hooded eyes search mine and his hand moves a wayward tendril of my hair away from my shoulder, and back behind my ear. His hand rests on my bare shoulder for a second and a shock, like the gentle buzzing of a mild electric current, courses through my cold skin. His own eyes fall shut, cutting off my only way to read his countenance.

"You bailed on me again, that's what's wrong," he retorts, his voice as hard as steel, his words slurred. He has definitely been drinking.

"I…I didn't see you earlier, Edward. I was looking for you."

"You didn't look well enough, Mr. Tall Dark Stranger had you in his clutches all night," he slurs again.

"Edward, you're not making any sense."

My tone is slightly irritated. Whatever does he mean, Mr. Tall Dark Stranger?

"Bella, please, stay with me tonight? I fly back tomorrow and I won't bother you for a month. Please just talk to me, Bella. Please?"

Edward is completely drunk. I hope Emmett didn't have anything to do with this, or I'll kill him. There's no use arguing with a wasted guy, and figure it's probably best to humour him.

"Of course I'll talk to you, Edward, but maybe you need a cup of coffee?"

He flashes a crooked smile at me. "Coffee sounds good," he answers, his balance dangerously shifting to one side. We're luckily at the French doors to the deck, and he can lean onto the doorframe.

"Come with me. I'll take you to the kitchen. No one will bother us there."

My main concern is that Edward makes it safely away from the sparse crowd that's still chatting the night away around the house and that as few people as possible (preferably none) see him in this state. The kitchen is my safest bet. The caterers must be long gone by now and no guests would think to venture into that area of the house.

Edward grabs my hand and holds it in a steel grip while I'm guiding him through the immense maze that is Angela's house. In the kitchen, he ungraciously plops down on a stool at the breakfast bar while I scavenge around for coffee fixings.

The air between us is tense, crackling with an uneasy intensity that I cannot place. His earlier words do sting a bit. He sounded almost…jealous? Possessive?

That can't be. I dismiss the thought under the heading 'wishful thinking' and pour two mugs of black coffee. I'll forgo the cream and sugar, Edward needs a hit of liquid sanity and I need something stronger than Prince of Wales, even if I probably won't sleep for a week after this.

In the nick of time before I grab the mugs and turn to place them on the counter, I feel his shaky breaths on my neck. I'm trapped, again.

What is this, a game of cat and mouse? Why do I have to be the mouse?

"I've waited all night to get you alone, Bella, and I won't walk away empty-handed…" he trails off, his strong hands tracing lazy, hot patterns on my bare shoulders.

I stand perfectly still, the mugs of coffee utterly forgotten. Suddenly, I feel something hotter, softer and definitely sexier graze my right shoulder, moving higher and higher along my neck. Edward is leaving a trail of kisses on my shoulder.

Edward is kissing me.

The monumental shock of this realisation hits me. Rationality abhors this and most forcibly wants me to run for the hills. My baser instincts and the part of me that caved in to Jasper's informed assumptions and admitted to her desires to 'shag the boss', are doing a victory dance around Angela's kitchen.

And, as if that weren't enough, my conflicting halves are, on cue, debating about the pros and cons of this. BeeBee is worried and ashamed, because this is a step closer to being _that girl_. LA Bella thinks this is pretty cool, but is afraid of jinxing her job.

In the midst of this heated debate, Edward helpfully solves the conflict for me, as he spins me around to face him.

"Stop thinking, B. Stop thinking," he croons, his lips dangerously close to my earlobe.

I close my eyes, and just give in to this feeling. Edward feels me relax in his grip, and continues his path to eternal glory.

"Fuck, B. I had to watch you from a distance all night. I had to watch you in this dress all night…" He sounds positively incoherent, but I don't care anymore. My brain is off the clock.

Then, his hands cradle each side of my face, and his eyes bore deep into mine, alight with sheer determination. He doesn't look plastered right now - he's a man on a mission.

There's a slight frown on his forehead, but it melts away quickly as his thumbs smooth over my flushed cheeks.

"Beautiful, beautiful Bella…Isabella…my girl…"

He slurs the 's' in my given name into an impossibly long, strained sound that's the sexiest thing I've ever heard. I never thought much of my name, that is, until now.

Without warning, his lips caress mine. Once, twice, they begin a dance that strips me of all residual brain activity. I respond, caress upon caress, nip upon nip, until this escalates to a whole new level and I find myself pressed between his lean frame and the door of Angela's fridge.

I am surrounded by Edward. His fingers thread through my hair, his arms encircle me, his body traps me, until I am boneless putty in his hands, shivering all over.

There are no sounds around us except my ragged breaths and Edward's strangled moans. He's driving me crazy barely by breathing and I wonder whether he realises the effect he has on me.

For all he claims he's clueless, he must have some mad mind-reading skills.

"I feel it too, B. This is the effect you have on me. Feel it, and don't walk away," he whispers again in my ear, when we finally come up for air, both of us reluctant.

His hips thrust most eloquently into my side and now I feel it. I feel him. I feel all of him, his arousal long and hot, pressed against me, and barely contained by his snug denims.

I heave a laboured sigh, as I nuzzle his neck. "Edward…"

I can't come up with anything smarter than this, but it's apparently enough to get him going.

"Don't ever deny me again, B," he pleads, his voice cracked by emotion as he holds me impossibly close, nuzzling my neck in turn.

Another fiery frenzy of kisses ensues, as his hands travel down south, to circle the shape of my breasts, encased in the floaty silk of my dress.

"Beautiful, beautiful Bella…Isabella…my girl…"

He slurs again, as the door slams open with a booming shout.

"BeeBee? Time to get you home, Miss Literary Genius!"

Edward abruptly releases me and eyes me warily, his face a conflicted mask. Is he regretting this? Possibly, because the next thing I know is that he storms out of the room without a backward glance.

Emmett. Gah! There must be 50 ways to kill your brother. Too bad Simon & Garfunkel didn't cover those, as well.

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Public Service Announcement. I have started putting together some visuals for this little story, and they are all in this Photobucket album. Click away, you know you want to...There's the Tiger, as well..

http:/ s1110 (dot) photobucket (dot) com / albums / h457 / LaMomo76 /Business%20Class%20Girl/


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Hide the pitchforks, ladies...here's the next installment, from a chatty and chapter-hogging CluelessWard turned MopeWard for the occasion.

The girls with the red pencil are always the awesome trio: Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe. They all rock! A big thank you to my sisters in crime Lory and Debbie for still holding my hand.

Bragging Corner: Business Class Girl has been nominated for 4 (and I say 4) Avant Garde Awards: Best Must Read, Best Bella, Best Edward and Best Emmett. Yours truly has also been nominated as Best New Author. Thank you to all the biased people who did it! Voting begins on 20 November - you know what to do, link to the awards site is on my profile!

Shout-outs for this week: KitsuShel, for reading and reviewing each chapter. I am in awe of you! MinaRivera, for making two incredible banners for this story - linkies below. Annie, for coaxing me into promising an outtake of Marcus's POV of the party (sometime in the near future)...

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

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BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 16**

_[December 22/23] – Edward_

Flying with a hangover is the worst possible idea anyone could have. Of course, I can't bloody help it and the only moronic ass I can blame on this earth is my own. On top of my throbbing headache, I am also nursing a humongous guilt trip, because last night's events are finally coming back to me in haphazard bits and pieces.

I kissed Bella.

I shoved her against Ang's fridge and kissed her forcefully. What if I bruised her?

I behaved like a drunken caveman and dragged her away from Mr. Tall Dark Stranger.

I stalked her all night hoping she'd come and talk to me and, when she didn't, I hunted her down like prey.

I even groped Bella, my fair Business Class Girl.

I manhandled her like a fumbling teenager on a hormonal rampage.

My slurred words of desire and mad possession probably made no sense to her. Hell, they made hardly any sense to me, assuming I am remembering them correctly.

I am sure I succeeded in ruining her evening.

_She kissed you back, Cullen._

My head falls back in defeat against the headrest of my plush first class seat, as I rub my eyes, trying to squeeze some discomfort out of my head. I've never been a great fan of medication, but desperate times call for desperate measures. An Advil or two won't take my guilt away, but they will certainly give me back some approximation of humanity. With a clear mind, I'll probably remember all the things I've wilfully removed from my memory and, with a faithful picture of last night clearer in my head, I'll be free to chastise my clueless, idiotic self for all the right reasons.

After all, I have a ten-hour flight ahead of me, and I must find a constructive pastime until I'm handed over to Little Miss Spanish Inquisition. To do this, I need to be perfectly isolated from the outside world and listening to my iPod for the next six hours or so seems like a good idea.

That is, of course, until 3 Doors Down begin thundering from my earbuds that they, too are '_Landing in London_'. Bollocks. Just the right song at the right moment, to get me into the festive mood.

_I woke up today in London_

_As the plane was touching down_

_And all I could think about was Monday_

_Maybe I'd be back around_

_If this keeps me away much longer_

_I don't know what I would do_

_You've got to understand it's a hard life,_

_that I'm going through_

_And when the night falls in around me_

_And I don't think I'll make it through_

_I'll use your light to guide the way_

_'Cause all I think about is you_

All I think about is Bella. How she looked in that dress, her radiant smiles, the easy conversation she kept up with Mr. Tall Dark Stranger, her shivers as I whispered my frantic, jealous words in her ear, her flushed cheeks as I held her to my chest, zeroing in on her face as I kissed her, the unreadable glint in her eyes as she whispered my name, in what I construed as a conflicted plea.

All I can think about is that my reckless, possessive actions have probably screwed up everything good I've built with Bella over the last few weeks. I'm nervous about leaving things hanging like this, but maybe some distance is a good idea right now. This way, I can wallow in relative solitude before Ang rings me to let me know that Bella has quit.

Then a fleeting thought hits me - I haven't heard from anyone since last night. My phone has been conspicuously, mockingly silent all this time. I haven't received a single call, text or email from anyone. Nothing from Angela, or Emmett, or even Alice. Heck, not even my mum has called me. I deliberately leave Bella off of this list. There's no chance in hell she'd want to talk to me right now. She's probably trying to figure out a way to emigrate to a secluded pampas in Argentina before I fly back to LA next month.

At least, she'll have a fun Christmas with Jasper and Rosalie around. I am wondering what they will be doing, when a terribly unwanted visual of Rosalie and Emmett strikes me. I try to shake this one off, but thinking of Jasper and Bella together doesn't help that much, either. They have a history together, and the mere thought that Bella doesn't have to watch her every word and move with Jasper, nor to keep her emotions in check. In short, that she can be herself, that she can be entirely open with him just because he's no longer her boss, but only her closest and oldest friend, makes blind rage bubble within me.

I recall that Mr. Tall Dark Stranger turned out to be an old friend of Bella's, too. I may or may not have dished out some sarcastic and awfully rude comment about this. He may or may not have looked down on me with a tangible hint of snotty disgust.

_Bollocks, Cullen. It'll be a miracle if she still wants to talk to you after this stunt._

I try to close my eyes and get some much needed sleep, but rest eludes me and my tormented thoughts keep coming back to her. My beautiful Bella. A vision of purple and cream.

There's one thing that my plastered ass can't have misconstrued, though.

She didn't refuse me. She didn't fight me off. She wanted this, too. She wanted me.

She kissed me.

Shit. This complicates things.

I am supposed to be the clueless idiot, the chap that flies by the seat of his pants, that snatches things away without pondering the consequences, just because I want them.

She is supposed to be the one in control, the rational girl, the one that always looks prepared, adult, professional and put-together. She shouldn't run wild like that. It's unsettling.

_But you sure as hell liked walking on her wild side, Cullen._

Last night harbours so much potential for disaster that I don't even want to delve into it. On top of the brainfuck I'm gladly and happily giving myself, I also realise that Emmett walked in on us.

Son of a bitch, he'll never let me live that one down. But first, he'll kick my ass for getting handsy with his baby sister.

A lot sooner than I expect, the captain announces that we're beginning descent into Heathrow. My heart sinks. I've never been so wary and unhappy to be back with my family.

All too soon, the plane lands. That's my cue to go through my well-oiled airport routine, the only minor change to it is the absence of my security detail. I always insist on leaving them behind whenever I go back to England. I don't want to feel under special surveillance at home and, luckily, I tend to steer clear of popular celebrity haunts in London, and this gives me a modicum of peace and quiet.

This doesn't mean I get to dodge the paps at the airport, too, unless I outwit them. That's the reason I'm leaving by a secluded side exit, where my dad is picking me up in a pretty unassuming silver SUV that's been the family car for years.

As soon as I plop down on the front seat beside him, his scrutinising eye lands on me. Carlisle Cullen, MD, RCS, is an eminent paediatrician at the Great Ormond Street Hospital and, much to his family's displeasure, he rarely switches his doctor-mode off.

"Good to see you, son. Might as well tell me why you're moping, though," he salutes me, cutting to the chase.

I may have forgotten to mention that he also likes to mess with me whenever he has the chance.

"Hi, Dad. I'm not moping. Where's Alice?" I try to divert his attention, but fail miserably.

"Sloane Street. You're lucky she's not here, or she'd be merciless with you."

_You'll be caught in the crossfire, Cullen._

Sloane Street means one thing only in my sister's vocabulary. Shopping. She's window-shopping, truly-shopping, and checking out the competition at the same time. She's a mostly efficient multi-tasker, and it's no wonder at all that she's struck up a friendship of sorts with Bella.

"So, Edward, what is this I hear from Russell…" my dad begins again.

I know where this is heading, he doesn't need to continue. And clueless old me thought that Alice would be the hammer of the gods. I'm sitting in my dad's car, grilled by said dad about my newly acquired personal assistant. This is the epitome of ridiculous.

_How about the fact that you kissed that personal assistant, Cullen? Still ridiculous?_

"Hhm…it would appear that… well, that we have some mutual acquaintances," I answer, smiling a little as I think of Bella and her killer swing, and hoping that my cheerfulness will get dad off my case.

My dad smirks and shots me a funny, knowing look. "Are we talking about the same mutual acquaintances that you take out on lunch dates, son?"

Bollocks. Are those fucking pics coming back to bite me in the ass for decades to come? I try to ignore the question, looking out of the window like a sulking child.

"Son, you know this is going to get tough when you face your mother _and _your sister. Better spill the beans with me and hope for some male solidarity now, rather than beg when you're facing the Inquisition later."

I bang my head on the window. This is my capitulation.

"Her name is Bella, Dad, and she's my personal assistant. She used to work for Uncle Russell, and she's been his golfing partner for years. She's….well…she's…special. That's all."

My father's sly smile is unwavering. He knows me too well, and the doctor in him detects every little shift in my demeanour as I mention Bella. That's a dead give-away, but what can I do? That's what she does to me, even with an ocean and a continent in between us.

"Special…" he finally echoes, his tone speculative. "That's the same expression Russell used. And you know what?"

His unflappable smirk is making me uneasy. My dad has something up his sleeve. I raise an eyebrow, silently questioning him.

"I might have met her before…" he says, casually, as if this wasn't some monumental piece of news to me. This dignified physician, with the polished look of a character from a Jane Austen drawing room, is a gossipmonger in disguise, and is as ruthless as Miss Bingley when it comes to juicy information. He's on to me, and is luring me in with his own enticing details. There's no use wondering where Alice got it from. DNA is a bitch.

"You met Bella? When? How?" There – hook, line and sinker. My word vomit has finally given me away. I'm a goner. Dad smirks again. I might hate him just a little if he doesn't give up some interesting details soon.

"You know, Russ's firm does a lot of _pro bono_ work…"

I nod. Six weeks with Bella and her law-speak have introduced me to some of the niceties of the legal arena, and now I actually know what _pro bono_ work is. "For the hospital?"

"Not just for us, for a number of institutions in the country. White Devlin & Hale take a lot of pride in their _pro bono_ work, and invest a good deal of time and money into this. Once a year, the firm throws a benefit gala for all those institutions and invites celebs, petty nobility and the like. I get invites for the gala every year."

"I thought you hated those things…?" My dad loves his job, but doesn't particularly relish the ass-kissing that might go with some aspects of being in charge of a publicly-run, under-funded but widely renowned institution.

"As a general rule, I do…but this is Russell's firm. He's my closest friend, and his firm has done a number of good turns to the hospital. We've saved hundreds of thousands of pounds in legal fees over the years thanks to the work they've done for us. And of course, it's good for the hospital's public image, so it's a necessary evil. So yes, I religiously attend the gala every year."

"Dad, I'm lost. How does Bella relate to all this?"

"You know, for a pretty smart kid, you're remarkably slow sometimes."

"I still have to face Alice and Mum. Show a bloke some mercy?" I'm getting antsy. What the hell is my father hiding from me?

"Well, this year's gala was at the V&A last May. Let me tell you, those lawyers know how to throw a party."

"V&A, as in Victoria & Albert Museum? That must have been some party…"

He nods, before launching on his explanation.

"And of course I complimented Russell on the perfect organisation, the scenic venue, the tasteful catering…and in turn, he introduced me to the '_genius behind it all_' as he put it."

I sigh with longing, and my chest puffs up with pride at the same time. This has Bella's trademark written all over it.

"Let me guess, the genius was Bella?" I ask, proud as a peacock, and not a little smug. Take that, Dad. I might be slow on the uptake, but slow and sure wins the race.

Carlisle smiles unevenly at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. At times like these, he looks like an older copy of yours truly, minus the bronze hair I got from my mother. The dishevelled look I perfected on my own.

"Yes, son, and she was there, in all her glory. I daresay, a most remarkable young lady. Russell is very fond of her. He also said she's like a daughter to him."

_Did you just growl at your dad, Cullen?_

"Bella speaks very fondly of Uncle Russell, too." I answer, keeping my other comments to myself.

"It looks like you two get on really well. I'm happy for you." I don't like the sudden turn of this conversation. Is my father implying something? Has Alice been talking behind my back?

"There's nothing to be happy about, Dad. We just work well together," I quip, my tone clipped and defensive.

"And the lunch dates? You know your mother is going to grill you about it. You kept your mouth shut with her and that made her highly suspicious. I take it this is the same Bella that Alice has been gushing about since she came home?"

I merely have the strength to nod. Not even through the front door, and my family is ganging up on me. I'm Bella-less on the other side of the world. She's left me unprotected to face the enemy and I don't know how to extricate myself from my very inquisitive family.

"Dad, can we just…can we just not talk about this? I'm exhausted and I'm not in the mood for small talk." I finally retort, my tone sullen and final.

"Which means that you have a shit-ton of things to hide, and you don't really appreciate me poking my parental nose into them. Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

The rest of the long drive home continues quite uneventfully until we pull up in front of my parents' house. Funny. I thought of this red brick three-storey as '_home_' till a few months ago, and now it's my parents' house. I'm a guest here, my home is in Venice Beach.

I wonder what my favourite neighbour back home is doing, but I have no time to dwell on these happy thoughts. Before I can even blink, I am engulfed by four small but freakishly strong arms.

"Edward! Finally!"

"Sweetie! Let your mum look at you!"

Here are Esme and Alice Cullen, the two women who completely ruled my world and had me wrapped around their little fingers, until my Business Class Girl came along. If they only knew. I hug them back, and for a passing moment I am happy to be here, with them.

They sense that something's amiss, though, as soon as I disentangle myself from them to head upstairs to my old room.

"Sweetie, what's wrong?"

"Edward, what did you do?"

Mum is worried, Alice is accusing. Mum tries giving Alice the stink eye, but Alice does not relent. She is glaring at me, her arms on her hips, and she's silently demanding an explanation. My mum is almost as shrewd as my dad, and she immediately cuts to the chase, but is way more subtle about it. She never relinquishes her motherly role, even when she's fishing for information.

"Are you feeling unwell, sweetie? Did you have a bad flight?"

With a one-armed hug, I kiss her cheek and smile weakly at her. "No, Mum. I'm just very tired. Jet lag."

She nods, with an almost imperceptible sidelong glance at Alice. Damn women and their secret sisterhood signals. Alice finally seems to soften and says, "I've got something for you. Come find me when you feel like some company."

I merely nod again and disappear upstairs, for some much needed…moping. Instead, I actually fall asleep before long, oblivious to all other thoughts of self-deprecation and second-guessing.

"Edward! Edward! It's time!"

"Bella?" Even in sleep, her name is the only coherent thought I can muster. I rub my eyes and try to get back on my feet. Finally, I realise I'm not in LA. I'm in London, in my childhood room, and the voice that troubled my sleep is Alice's, and sadly, not Bella's.

"Are you awake now?" she says, impatiently. Impatience is Alice's middle name.

"No, go away, evil backstabbing pixie…"

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly and pokes a tiny, elegantly lacquered finger into my jet-lagged chest.

"You, Edward Cullen, are the most undeserving brother that ever walked this earth."

I quirk a lazy eyebrow at her, and try sarcasm as a last resort weapon. I will lose this battle anyway, but I fully intend to go down in style.

"Should I be flying instead?"

Alice swats my arm with unexpected force. "You're a lousy, grumpy, unstylish heap of rags. You know that, right?"

I shudder. Alice has just unleashed on me her own personal equivalent of a string of unadulterated profanities. Being unstylish is a capital offence in her world, punishable with social death by non-designer, mismatched, last year's clothing. In short, slow and painful.

I plop back down on the bed again. I sense this is going to be a longish conversation, I might get comfortable anyway. Leaning on my elbows, I throw a sheepish glance at my sister.

"You said…you said you had something for me?"

"Did I mention 'undeserving'?" she asks, in a mock-disdained tone, but the hint of a smile on her face. Alice looks like a miniature porcelain doll, petite and light like a ballerina. Here I am, turning into a sap, praising my sister's beauty like a minstrel from times bygone. All because I miss Bella, and Alice's perfectly sweet features remind me of Bella's own perfection, now unattainable to yours truly, the King of Clusterfuck from CluelessTown.

I scratch my head pensively, and realise that I haven't answered Alice's question, as rhetorical as it could be. "I believe you did. Of course, you are right. I'm most undeserving right now. But take pity on me, please?"

She smiles playfully at me and throws me a pink metallic contraption. It's her blackberry. Only Alice would have a pink blackberry.

"What am I to do with your 'crackberry', Alice?"

She huffs, and her answer is enunciated with pedantic patience. "Pull up text messages. Read the last one."

I do as she says, scrolling the menus till I find the incriminated text. I don't need to see the sender's name, my heart knows it before my head can register it.

***Edward landed and home all right? BeeBee***

I close my eyes, clutching Alice's blackberry like a lifeline. She texted Alice. About me. She asked about me.

I risk a peek at Alice's answering text.

***Moping in his room, but quite all right. A***

"Thank you, Alice. I know you didn't have to do this."

"True. But your face back there scared me a little, Eddiekins. What happened?"

My brow furrows in frustration as I toss the pink offending device into Alice's hands.

"I got completely wasted at Angela's party."

Alice eyes me sceptically. She doesn't get this or, at least, has no way to fathom the possible ramifications of my drinking habits on this particular occasion.

"And where's the news in this?"

"Alice, remind me never to walk in on you while a random guy is snogging the living daylights out of you. That would be something from which I might never recover."

Alice's hazel eyes elegantly bulge out of their sockets. A strangled, high-pitched shriek is her laconic answer to my shocking comment. "What? WHAT?"

"Please, don't make me say that again. Please, tell me your ears are functioning properly and you're just trying to figure how to have me committed."

Alice's features freeze and then she covers her mouth with both her hands. For a split second, I don't know whether she's going to scream bloody murder or…

She's laughing. My sister is crying with laughter at my own sodding misery.

"Thanks for your undying support, Alice…" I trail off, and then a metaphorical light bulb flashes in my brain. I suddenly see this exchange from Alice's perspective.

I have to admit that my abrupt summary of the evening, without any context, may sound hilarious to the third party observer. Too bad the third party is my sister, though. Otherwise, I'd be laughing my arse off right along with her.

Alice finally understands my plight and says, "Edward, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be making fun of you but…I'm not sure I understand…Or am I? Oh my god. Did you really? And she…? And he…? And what did you?"

"ALICE! One fucking question at a time!" I huff, unable to keep up with her.

"Do you want the short or long version?" I ask, even if I already know the answer.

"I want details, Edward Anthony. Like, yesterday. Out with it, now."

Bossy Alice is back, and I have only one way of fending her off.

"Why torment me? She'll tell you everything anyway, and you'll know fair and square that I screwed up. Stop harassing your older brother. I claim seniority rights."

"I'm waiting."

I heave a resigned sigh and try to concoct a very short, much less graphic version of last night's events.

"I screwed up, for good."

Alice shakes her head, which means that she's actually letting this one slide.

"I really wish you'd give yourself more credit sometimes, Edward. I mean it. Come downstairs now, Mum said that dinner's ready, and that was about an hour ago. No excuses."

I nod and heave myself off the bed. Alice is off my case - for how long, I have no way of knowing. She'll come back to her merciless questioning whenever I least expect it.

Dinner with my family turns out to be an uncharacteristically quiet affair. They're all walking on eggshells around me and, while it's perfectly normal for me to claim jet lag to hide my shame, I am also aware that they've been sharing information. They must know something's the matter.

There's idle chatter going on around me, news about Mum's charity projects and about Dad's fellow doctors and friends, about Uncle Russell and about Alice's doings in Milan. No news about me, because I don't pitch any into the conversation. I poke my food around, even if mum has gone to an awful lot of trouble to cook my favourites tonight.

Mum's hand covers mine on the table. "Edward, sweetie, we are so happy you're back home."

Her affectionate, sincere remark throws down all my walls. I'm being a spoiled, ungrateful brat. I would kick my own ass, if I could. I turn my mum's hand in mine and squeeze it.

"I'm happy to be home too, Mum."

My vacant eyes don't deceive her, though. "But you'd rather be somewhere else, right?"

I open and close my mouth twice, my answer hesitant and slow. I want to spare them the gory details, but I don't want to deceive my family, either.

"I just…left some unfinished business in LA, Mum. I'm not sure what I'll find when I go back."

"Anything likely to fester, son?" comments my father, interjecting his beloved medical jargon into dinnertime talk.

"I'm afraid so."

In the corner of my eye, I see Alice nodding again at my mum. These two are up to no good, I swear.

"Edward, I thought I'd give you an advance Christmas present," says Alice, back to her usual cheerful self.

"Uh?" My answer is the epitome of eloquence. Good riddance to me, because little talking is usually required around Alice.

She's flashing a blue glittered envelope in front of my weary eyes.

"Open it, it's your present. I'm not sure you're quite entitled to it, though."

"Being undeserving and all…"

"Something like that, Eddiekins, something like that…" she replies, a smile in her voice.

The envelope reveals a printout of an airline ticket. A plane ride for passengers Alice and Edward Cullen, from London Heathrow to LAX. Date: 27 December.

In four days. Alice wants to fly back to LA with me in four days. Bollocks, she planned this shit. She must have planned this way back, because getting flights at Christmas from anywhere to everywhere is the worst travelling nightmare you can imagine.

Clueless old me actually knows this because Bella has been telling Emmett again and again that they're lucky they even got flights for Jasper and Rosalie, with outrageously high fares even for business class.

"Alice, what does this mean?" I ask, flashing the printout in front of her grinning face.

"It means I'm flying back to LA with you," she quips, flatly, as if that's the simplest thing in the world.

"Why?"

"Edward, I swear…for a smart guy…"

"I'm slow on the uptake, I get it. Now revel in your own brilliance and humour my pedantic pace. Why are we flying back to LA right after Boxing Day? I'm supposed to stay here till the end of January, you're totally screwing up my schedule, Alice!"

The more I say, the more my voice rises in disdain. How could Alice do this to me? Get me back to LA? Force me to see Bella? Now that I've screwed up? Does she want me dead?

_What if she wanted to surprise you, Cullen?_

"Because I want to meet Bella, and that's exactly what we're going to do. You're flying me back to LA so that I can see her. Plain and simple."

_You're so screwed, Cullen._

Resistance against my sister is futile. On the upside, I get to see my Business Class Girl again much earlier than planned. I can't help the goofy grin that instantly knocks away all residues of my moping self.

"Well, Merry Christmas to me, I guess?"

Alice flashes me her blinding smile. She knows she's won.

* * *

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Visuals for Esme and Carlisle are on my profile. See you next week!


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Hide the pitchforks, ladies...here I am...partially unbeta'd this time, because my gals are very busy...but they still rock! Who? The awesome trio: Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe!

Bragging Corner: Business Class Girl has been nominated for 4 (and I say 4) Avant Garde Awards: Best Must Read, Best Bella, Best Edward and Best Emmett. Yours truly has also been nominated as Best New Author. Thank you to all the biased people who did it! Voting for the first round closes on December 4 - you know what to do, link to the awards site is on my profile!

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

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BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 17**

_[December 26/27] – BCG's POV_

When Jasper said they'd come and gatecrash our Christmas, I was glad. I really was. I'd see Rosalie again, and I'd also see Jasper outside his pouting, former boss attitude that always seemed to say '_you left me high and dry to pursue your unlikely dreams of glory_'.

Now that they've been here for two days, my feelings are conflicted. Right on cue, Rosalie and Emmett have spent most of their time cooped up in Emmett's room, busy with their own Christmas celebrations.

This has left me pretty much to Jasper's mercy, with ups and downs. On one hand, I am still happy to see him again – I've had some unadulterated, irresponsible fun with him in the last two days, and I can't but be grateful for that. On the other hand, Jasper reads my moods like an open book, and he knows something's bugging me.

He knows me so well that he completely forgoes interrogations of any kind, because he's damn sure that I will go look for him, once I can't keep it all bottled up any more and I need a patient ear for my ranting.

I kissed Edward.

I let him kiss me and feel me up in the middle of Angela's kitchen.

The thought assaults me unbidden, as it has often done in the last few days. I have no control over these fleeting images that run though my brain like flashing lights from a firework display.

Fireworks – a most appropriate analogy. I saw and felt fireworks when he touched me. I felt a connection that ran deep through my skin, down to my marrow, leaving a trail of fire and lust in its wake. Even now, I can't concentrate on anything around me whenever memories of fireworks and blazing green eyes cloud my judgment.

I am lounging in the den, trying to play Guitar Hero with Jasper. My fingers go over the plastic keys on autopilot, because I've got this song memorised, but I'm not putting up a great fight. I'd normally knock him out after a few bars, and now he's practically completed the song without hardly a hitch.

Damn him, he's even doing better than me. I can't let him beat me on Pearl Jam, can I?

My brow furrows in concentration, as I let the sounds possess me and my fingers. When the rhythm owns me, I let my ears and fingers do the work for me, and if I can shut my brain out for good, it does the trick. For a few bars, I overtake him, but then my brain runs headlong into a not-so-random string of ideas, just by mere association…

Music…guitar…fingers…Edward's fingers playing the guitar…his long, sinewy fingers around my face…tucking a strand of hair behind my ear…

I'm a goner. It's official. Jasper has just kicked my arse at Guitar Hero – on Even Flow, no less – and is doing a goofy victory dance around the couch. Disgusted with myself, I throw my plastic replica of John Lennon's black 325 Rickenbacker guitar down on the floor. Visuals of Edward and Guitar Hero definitely don't work so well for me.

Jasper stops his victory dance mid-stride, right in front of me, his hazel eyes level with mine.

"BeeBee, you completely spaced out for a minute there. What's wrong with you? You let me win on a Pearl Jam song? Has the world gone completely bonkers?"

I don't know what to say. I don't even have the courage to truly look him in the eye, because I'm afraid of my own reactions. I decide to go with complete honesty.

"_I_'ve gone completely bonkers, Genius, that's the problem."

He disentangles himself from the guitar strap and plops down on the couch beside me, his left arm draped over my shoulders.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I think I need more detail than that. Care to enlighten me?"

I gather my legs up on the couch and hug my knees, leaning my head to the side to look at Jasper, who is patiently waiting for an answer. When that answer fails to materialise, he goes on, as if he had an agenda of his own.

"You've not been yourself since we arrived on Christmas Eve. I've been wondering what's eating at you, and I've waited just because I hoped you'd actually grow a pair and talk to me. I see that I will need to coax this out of you like in the olden days."

"Speaking of which, you'll never guess who showed up at Angela's party…"

Will my diversion work? Certainly not, but it buys me some time while I'm figuring out what to say to him. Jasper raises an eyebrow, but motions for me to answer.

"Sir…"

"Marcus? As in, _our_ Sir Marcus Goldsmith?" Jasper's answer is so quick that I don't even get to finish my announcement.

"The very one, looking as dapper as ever."

Jasper's eyes narrow to slits, and his speculative look betrays him. While he's genuinely interested in learning more about Marcus's reappearance – at Angela's bash, no less – he's also trying to decide whether this is what got my knickers in a twist, or just my shameless sidetracking.

"What was he doing at Angela's party?"

"He was one of the two guys I was supposed to meet, remember, from two different publishing houses? Well, it turns out that Marcus read my manuscript without knowing it was mine, and now his company is looking into publishing it."

"His company?" asks Jasper, his protective, cautious, half-lawyer, half-best friend instincts kicking in.

"His company, LB Books, based in New York. He's the Commissioning Editor, but he doesn't own it. Let's say he's a bigwig, and he got this post because he's bloody good at what he does. But we already knew that, right?"

Jasper stands up all of a sudden, gesturing for me to bear with him for a second. He returns, two beers in his hand.

"I figured we'd need sustenance for this kind of conversation," he says, handing one to me.

"Good thinking, Genius."

"So you say he didn't know the manuscript was yours? And you believe him?"

I shoot him a very dirty look. "Jasper, looking out for me is one thing, badmouthing a lifelong friend of yours is another."

He heaves a deep sigh. "All right, that was…unfair of me. If you believe him, I do. But how?"

"Manuscripts are codenamed, no last names anywhere. Even if this system can fail here and there, if anyone blabs, his face when he saw me settled the matter for me. He was surprised, genuinely surprised to meet me. So yes, I believe him. Marcus is not an issue here, however."

"Who is, then? Don't think your diversion techniques can outwit me much longer, BeeBee. I want to know what got you in a strop."

I pluck at an inexistent loose thread in my sweater to avoid his keen gaze.

"I kind of…well…I followed your advice, Jasper, but I'm not sure it worked so well."

I close my eyes. The only thing I remember now is Edward storming out of Angela's kitchen after he kissed me, after Emmett walked in on us.

I got cockblocked by my own brother, who hasn't said a single word about this for days. This is strange, and disturbing. I would have expected a good ribbing from Emmett. Maybe he didn't joke about it because he disapproves. Maybe he feels I'm being unprofessional. Maybe he wants to stay as much out of this as possible because Edward is also a client of his.

Jasper is silent for a long minute.

"I know I usually bestow good advice to the masses, BeeBee, but just to be absolutely sure about this…Are we talking about…?"

There. Jasper can't even say Edward's name out loud which, by the way, is a fortunate occurrence, because if he did, I'd probably lose my cool and blurt out everything in some completely haphazard, confused and unintelligible way.

"Edward, his name is Edward. And yes, we're talking about him."

Jasper taps his elegant index finger on his nose, in a slightly sarcastic, but pensive gesture.

"A disturbance in the force I feel, young Padawan."

I huff in annoyance. "Don't go all Yoda on me, Genius. I can beat you at Star Wars quotes any day."

"You said the same for Guitar Hero…"

"That's a low blow even for you. You profited from my temporary musical malfunction, that's all."

He takes a long swig of his beer and slams the empty bottle on the coffee table. "This American stuff, I can't fathom how you can drink this, for the life of me. I miss my London Pride."

Jasper is anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, even when it comes to beer. He has little patience for American bottled beers, but he has to put up with Beck's only because it's the only thing that Emmett really enjoys.

"Edward kissed me." I blurt it out, without thinking. Rip off the plaster, just like that – one second of excruciating pain, and then it's over.

Jasper coughs, nearly choking on his beer. "Bloody hell, BeeBee! You have no mercy on me!"

"Emmett walked in on us in Angela's kitchen."

Jasper is still coughing. "Bloody hell, Emmett has no mercy on me either! And now what?"

I take one long, last swig of my own beer and stretch out my limbs. "Now nothing. Emmett had no idea we were there, much less what we were at, and just barged in, pure Emmett style. Edward ran like a bat out of hell."

"He's back in London now, right?"

I nod, unable to vent out my other thoughts and questions.

"When is he due back? Have you talked to him since?"

"End of January. Of course not." Not monosyllabic, but very nearly.

"Damn, BeeBee, give me something to work on here. Why haven't you been talking to him?"

"First, he's on holiday – I don't want to pester him in any way. Second, he was…pretty out of it that night – what if he woke up the next day and regretted it? No, thanks. I don't want to go through that. Better to…"

"Keep over-thinking, second-guessing yourself, hiding your head in the sand? Pretty tedious, complicated hobby for the holidays, if you ask me." Jasper quips, effectively putting an end to this miserable discussion. He disagrees with me, and it couldn't be any plainer if he flashed a big neon sign over his head.

Then, stretching his legs to get back on his feet, he stares at me with a serious, concerned expression in his eyes.

"BeeBee, only you can decide what to do with this but…don't let something good pass you by because of your insecurities. I don't think you see yourself clearly all the time, but sometimes the real you shines through. I think the real BeeBee shines through more often than not, when this guy is around. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. It's the look in your eyes, or the smile in your voice when you talk about him. Give this a shot, for me, will you?"

I nod again, utterly floored by Jasper's honest and heartfelt words. I'm honoured to have such a friend, who consistently refrains from sugar-coating things to me. He is bluntly honest, but never unfeeling.

He sees right through me, with only scanty details to work on. No wonder he's an exceptional lawyer, he has some outstanding analysis skills. He's also perfectly right. I want something with Edward, but I'm scared shitless, and all the implications and complications are the best excuse ever for me to walk away, as yet unscathed.

I don't think I can run away from this indefinitely. I don't think I even want to.

Jasper's voice shakes me from my musings.

"Care to feed your best friend? It's getting late and I'm sort of starved."

I get back on my feet and follow him upstairs, back into the kitchen. As I scan the contents of the fridge for some leftovers that could be suitable candidates for dinner, I call over my shoulder. "Do you think we should wait for Em and Rose?"

"Not worth the effort. They'll resurface, eventually, but I think they're old enough to fend for themselves, right?"

"Got it, Genius. Lasagna still good for you?"

"I could eat your lasagna till Doomsday, but I think I'll need some dessert too," he adds, with an evil glint in his eye. Jasper has a terrible sweet tooth. I heave a dramatic sigh, just for show. I know what he wants.

As the lasagna heats up in the oven, I cut two generous slices of _pandoro_ and whip up some more mascarpone cream. Jasper is salivating like a kid locked up in the storeroom of Honeyduke's for a fortnight.

The typically Italian, fluffy star-shaped Christmas cake has an average content in butter and sugar that could cause diabetes on sight. Jasper has no such ailments and is madly fond of this delicacy, that I can '_bestow on the masses_' each Christmas thanks to my mum's packages of holiday goodies. The mascarpone cream is just an added perk, a thick, silky concoction that coats the warm slices of _pandoro_ making them an even worse threat to anyone's cholesterol rates. Jasper, tall and lean, couldn't care less about calories nor cholesterol, and indulges his Epicurean nature without restraint. I actually need to stop him from finishing it all up, just because someone else in this house is fond of it almost as much as he is – me.

"BeeBee, this is pure bliss," he almost moans, finishing up his third slice.

It's past eleven, and neither Emmett nor Rosalie have shown up for dinner. I wonder how Jasper is going to sleep, with the sugar high brought on by his liberal consumption of _pandoro_. I'm not nearly sleepy myself, either, and I've had only one slice (substantially thinner than any of his, I might add).

"Jasper, neither of us is likely to be asleep soon. Care to give Guitar Hero another go?"

He eagerly licks some mascarpone off his fingers and nods enthusiastically.

When we're settled back in the den, he rubs his hands and gets down to business. "My rules now. I say each of us picks the songs the other is going to play, and the level."

I huff, mildly confused. This way of playing doesn't make any sense to a seasoned Guitar Hero addict like me. It's plain to see there's no equal base of comparison there. How do you know who did best?

"Jasper, ever heard of the simple concept of benchmark? Because your idea's very challenging, but it certainly lacks benchmark. Who wins?"

It's Jasper's turn to huff. His next words are enunciated with pedantic calm, with the same tone he uses in stormy negotiations. "It's not for the sake of winning. It's for the sake of the challenge itself."

"I'm not following you."

"Oh come on, you of all people should get this. We're both competitive, right? If you want to do better than me, and you pick the songs I'm playing, you're bound to choose the ones I'm totally crap at. I'll do the same. Like this, we're on an even footing, and we'll probably end up playing songs we've never looked at twice. No points this time, just playing. Let's see what you've got there, BeeBee."

I nod – there's some merit in what he says, for it's true that I always tend to stick to the same, limited range of songs. The ones I like, and the ones I own. Since I lost the earlier set, I get to choose his songs first. Graciously, Jasper doesn't comment on my selection, and gets his mindset into the game.

He's not completely helpless, but he's not familiar with the songs and, like all real life guitar players, he has a hard time separating real guitar chords and fictitious ones. Guitar players always tend to suck at Guitar Hero, whilst the musically impaired like me thrive without a hitch, as long as they have a knack for rhythm and some hand-eye coordination skills.

Nonetheless, Jasper is sweating by the end of the third song. He's stayed afloat, but he can do much better than this. He gives me a stink eye that I might remember for a long time.

"Have I killed one of your puppies in a former life? Killing in the Name, Bulls on Parade and Monkey Wrench? Fuck you very much!"

"Challenge, remember? Your turn to hit me now. Do your worst."

"All right, let's see how you handle this. Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down, Hurts So Good by John Mellencamp, and You and Me by Attack Attack! The stage is yours."

Bollocks. Jasper is a subtle arsehole. He's not playing for the sake of it, he's sending me a covert message. I know those godforsaken songs, pretty well even. The lyrics tell me that I'm dead right. Jasper is sending me subliminal messages via Guitar Hero.

What has the world come to? I think, as I'm finger-picking my way through You and Me. This is where I mentally throw down the gauntlet, but I can't do this, it's a matter of principle. I opt to keep playing instead. Jasper's lowest and subtlest blow is in the first verse of the song.

_Far too long now I have been waiting_

_Waiting for something just to happen_

_Far too long now I have been thinking_

_I've been thinking you've got the answer to..._

_...The question is do you feel like you're letting go?_

_The question is do you feel like you've lost control?_

Somehow, I get to the end. Jasper is yawning in his corner of the couch.

"Genius, I think we'd best call it a night," I say, nudging him with my plastic Rickenbacker.

"What?" he yawns again, stretching his legs.

"Sleep, Jasper. Bed, upstairs."

We both trudge upstairs and grumble some semblance of a 'goodnight' before each of us disappears in our respective rooms. No embarrassing signs of Emmett's or Rosalie's presence anywhere. At least they've been considerate enough to keep their decibels in check.

The next morning, I wake up abruptly to the sound of my blackberry thundering with the chipper chorus of 'Uptown Girl'. With my eyes still shut, I fumble on the nightstand till I find my phone and, somehow, I blindly manage to tap the correct keys and answer the call.

"Alice? What time is it?" I ask, sitting up in my bed, and slowly becoming aware of the ungodly time difference. I risk a glance at the clock. It's nearly noon in LA, which means it must be nearly 8pm in London.

Blimey, I overslept!

I quickly recover, though. I'm on holiday, who cares if I slept through a gazillion alarms?

"Never mind the time! Are you home?" asks Alice, cutting to the chase.

"Alice, I'm so at home that I'm still in bed." I hear muffled voices in the distance, she must be with someone.

"Well, don't move, because you're getting an important delivery this morning," she answers cryptically, almost stifling one of her epic squeals.

"Can I get out of bed, at least? I might need nourishment at some point, you know?"

"Of course, just…don't leave the house."

There's no point in contradicting Alice. I agree to her crazy instructions and quickly disconnect the phone.

I pad downstairs to the kitchen, barefoot and with my hair in a messy bun, to find Jasper already up and about, with a stack of newspapers spread out on the kitchen island. He has occupied my kitchen with his business papers. My kitchen now speaks the language of Moody's and Fitch's ratings, and my morning mug of tea is in close proximity with the Financial Times.

"Morning, Genius."

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty. I thought you'd never show up this morning," he quips, quite cheerful.

"Well, someone solved the problem for you," I quip, still yawning.

Jasper quirks an eyebrow over the rim of his own mug of tea.

"I got the strangest phone call from Alice. Not that her other phone calls could be labelled as ordinary, but still…"

I open several cabinet doors and drawers at random, with the typical lack of purpose I have on those mornings when I'd rather stayed in bed. Finally, my hand reaches for the fridge door. Sometimes, X does mark the spot. I've found what I was looking for (raspberry jam) and can get back to the serious business of preparing my breakfast.

"Alice would be?" asks Jasper, who isn't up to speed with the rest of Edward's family tree.

"She's Edward's sister. We're sort of…friends, I would say. She's a pocket firecracker of a girl, but I'm fond of her."

"What made this phone call stranger than the rest?"

I'm about to answer Jasper's question when we hear two sets of feet padding down the wooden staircase. Emmett and Rosalie have finally come up for air.

"Look at you! You're alive!" My snarky comment leaves my burly brother and my BFF totally unfazed, as they both sit down at the kitchen island, on a serious hunt for some much needed sustenance.

The kitchen is suddenly crowded, with the four of us now assembled around the island. Two mugs of earl grey and two cups of coffee. Four pints of orange juice (yes, Emmett drinks it by the pint). A stack of toast and pancakes. Jasper's lone but substantial slice of _pandoro_. Jasper's stack of newspapers. My own stack of notes and mail to go through, along with my planner and my blackberry. Emmett's ever-present copy of Sports Illustrated. Rosalie's copy of Vogue and something that looks dangerously like an Information Memorandum. I hope she doesn't scatter confidential information around my house.

We pass around jars of jam, the sugar bowl, the milk carton and a whole series of breakfast paraphernalia over our criss-cross, endless late morning chatter. We've been in the same house together for three days now, but it looks like it's the first all-round, civilised talk we're having. There's a lot of catching up to do.

"Rose, any news of upcoming partnerships, this year?" I ask, eager to know about her future prospects. She's been working very hard towards that goal in the last three years, even sacrificing her relationship with Emmett, and the possibility to move in together, because she wanted to achieve a stronger foothold within her firm before thinking of her '_personal issues_', as she calls them.

"They might make room for a couple, but it all depends on what sort of business case the candidates will come up with. Mine's as good as any. Someone's willing to cut corners, though."

Emmett's face darkens perceptibly. "What do you mean by cutting corners?"

"Well, if you agree to move to another office, they might reconsider, even if your business case is crap. Some assholes are thinking this could be a way of killing two birds with one stone."

"Rosalie, this is not the time. Hold your tongue, for heaven's sake." Jasper's voice is ice cold.

"But Jazz…" Rosalie challenges him, but to no avail.

"You will do as I say. It's a family holiday. Give it a rest."

Rosalie shuts up, with a look of haughty disdain on her face. This isn't over, and sure as hell I want to know what she meant with all that but, with the shittiest timing in the world, my words are drowned by the sound of the doorbell.

"Who the fuck would that be?" Leave it to Emmett to voice his concerns with his customary courtly manners.

"I'm…I'm kinda expecting a delivery, I'll go get this."

When I open the door, sure as hell, there's a Fed-Ex delivery guy with a gigantic, flat and square parcel and a delivery slip for me to sign.

"Delivery for Miss Isabella Marie Swan?" he asks, handing me the receipt.

"That would be me, thank you," I reply, snatching a pen to sign the receipt from a bowl in the hallway where Emmett dumps odds and ends from his pants pockets.

The guy nods and thanks me, and is gone in a flash. I'm sizing up the parcel, considering whether I need help in taking this inside, and my questioning eye falls on the delivery labels on it. A neat, classy label says 'Giorgio Armani S.p.A.' and the delivery address is etched in a messy scrawl that I would recognise everywhere as my mother's handwriting.

This must be her Christmas present which, by some stroke of luck, has only been delivered two days late this year. She has no grasp on time and calendars, and probably waited to courier this aberration until the very last minute. I'm still trying to figure out how to get this inside, when Emmett appears.

"Need help with that, Hot Stuff?"

"That'd be nice, Em. I think this parcel is actually taller than I am."

He snickers. "Let me guess, it's from Renee, right?" I nod, pushing the parcel inside.

He shakes his head, still chuckling. "Only Renee would send a Christmas present after Christmas."

"The timing is just typical, Em. I'm more worried about the size of this thing."

Emmett effortlessly moves it inside, and I'm suddenly hit by an epiphany. Alice warned me about a delivery this morning, and here is my mom's present. I am sure, by now, that they work together, but the fact that Alice might know what this is about is…unsettling.

I shake my head, thinking that I know better than putting two and two together like this, without clues, without evidence. As I'm finally shutting the door behind my back, the doorbell rings yet again.

"BeeBee, are you having anything else delivered this morning?" asks Em, still snickering as he places Renee's parcel against the hallway wall.

"Not that I know of, Em. I'll get this, go finish your breakfast."

He pads back to the kitchen and I turn to open the door once again.

I don't even have the time to say '_hello_' and to process my surroundings, that two small, but freakishly strong arms engulf me. I'm being almost hurled to the floor by a tiny ball of energy that is donning Jackie-O sunglasses in December, a white Hermès scarf, a black Armani handbag and smells like Giorgio Armani Diamonds. Now is definitely the time to put two and two together, even if reason defies it.

What was Sherlock Holmes's motto? '_Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth._'

"Alice?"

_[December 27] – Edward _

Trying to get though a ten-hour flight peacefully with Alice is an impossible feat, all the more when she's been bouncing with excitement for thirty-six hours straight.

I actually wanted to sleep and mope a little more on the plane, take some time to go over my options and get a good grip on my emotions before I had to face Bella again. I've had no such luck. Alice has kept gushing about BeeBee (as she calls her) non-stop since we left my parents' house.

_Cullen, are you the only moron who doesn't call her BeeBee?_

The ride from the airport to Venice Beach is long and nerve-racking. Alice doesn't stop talking for a second, but eventually I manage to tune her out.

At destination, Alice wants to see my new house first and this actually works to my advantage. I can gain some sort of composure before the big reveal. I know that Bella isn't big on surprises, I can't help wondering what she will think of this one. She is certainly in for a bit of a shock.

Alice dumps most of her bags in the middle of my living room and runs around the house enthusiastically, shouting 'oohs' and 'aahs' of wonder at every knick-knack that she happens to like.

"You know that I didn't decorate this, right?" I'm so nervous and jet-lagged that I don't even try to hide my bitter sarcasm.

"I'm aware of that, you big dork! It's still a nice place to me, it's plain that BeeBee helped you pick this," she adds, gleefully throwing Bella's name into the conversation, for good measure.

After a thorough tour of the house, she's back in the hallway and she's dragging me outside.

"Come on, useless older brother of mine! Lead the way, I want to meet Bella!"

Resistance is futile, and I accompany Alice along the short footpath that separates Emmett and Bella's house from mine.

At her door, I finally freeze because panic is overtaking me. Alice ascends the doorsteps and rings the bell, while I remain rooted in place, unable to move.

I hear some racket from inside the house and then I remember that Jasper and his sister are there, too. A full house – I'll have a perfect audience for my misery.

The door opens and she finally appears. I have tunnel vision, and everything else disappears as I take in her appearance. Her hair cascades on her shoulders in a loose ponytail, her eyes are still sleepy, and she has a smidge of what looks like jam on her nose. She's also barefoot, and her yoga pants (or whatever else are these grey, loose thingies she's wearing) hang definitely low on her hips, unveiling a sliver of her toned stomach. She's never looked more adorable to me than she does now.

I can't look away, and with some luck, I'm not yet making a complete fool of myself because she can't see me. She doesn't see me, yet, because Alice has gripped her in a vice-tight hug. With a half-strangled, half-stunned voice, she finally says: "Alice?"

"Bellaaaaa! I finally get to meet you!"

"Alice, so you're the delivery I was expecting?" Bella recovers her cool very quickly, still not quite looking around, though.

"Of course, who else?"

"So you wouldn't happen to know that I got a parcel from Milan this morning? You don't know anything, and I say anything about that?" Bella's inquisitive voice is scary, and even Alice has the good sense to look sheepish.

"Well, no…but…"

Bella's gaze finally wanders past Alice's diminutive frame and lands on me.

"Edward? You're here, too?"

There's genuine disbelief in her voice, a hint of surprise, and something else besides, an emotion I cannot place. And it scares the living daylights out of me.

"Of course he's here! I had to drag him along to find you, right?" says Alice, genially, cutting me off the conversation.

I climb the doorsteps that still separate me from Bella and try to hold her gaze without faltering. My sister is uncharacteristically silent.

"Yes, I'm here, too. I'm here to stay."

The words sound foreign and cheesy on my lips, as if I've stolen them off a bad script, but I don't care. She smiles. Bella's smiling at me, and her whole face lights up. My misery's over.

"Well, you'd best get inside, then," she says, and everything clicks into place again.

It's going to be a very interesting day.

* * *

**Songs in this chapter**:

Even Flow, Pearl Jam: http: / www(dot)youtube(dot)com /watch?v=WQBPtQ6bXG8

Guitar Hero, Jasper's set:

Rage Against The Machine, Killing in the Name: http: / www(dot)youtube(dot)com /watch?v=sjDPWP5GKQA&feature=fvst

Rage Against The Machine, Bulls on Parade: http: / www(dot)youtube(dot)com /watch?v=-58-36lSqG4

Foo Fighters, Monkey Wrench: http: / www(dot)youtube(dot)com /watch?v=NQ0we7NmojM

Guitar Hero, Bella's set:

John Mellencamp, Hurts so Good: http: / www(dot)youtube(dot)com /watch?v=4dOsbsuhYGQ

Attack Attack!, You And Me: http: / www(dot)youtube(dot)com /watch?v=CAhXWEloWLU

Linkies to pictures are on my profile...


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Hide the pitchforks, ladies...here I am...despite the curved balls that RL threw my way last week...Thanks to everyone out there for your love and support. It means the world to me. The awesome resident trio who make sense of my rogue commas: Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe!

Shout-outs for the week: KitsuShel, for letting me share with her the jewel that is Parachute, Mina&Annie who always make me smile, Eifeltwr - my twinsie half a world away, AstonMartinVanquish - for Queensland Crabs (bless them), and rickyc717 who left me the BESTEST review ever - girlie, you have PM's disabled, otherwise I would have replied to your last. You rock.

Bragging Corner: Business Class Girl has made it to the second round of voting for the Avant Garde Awards in the Best Must Read Category. Thank you to all the biased people who did it! Voting for the second round closes on December 26 - you know what to do, link to the awards site is on my profile!

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 18**

_Edward _

Thundering footsteps echo in the distance and a booming voice erupts over Bella's shoulder.

"What's all this commotion, Hot Stuff?"

Leave it to Emmett to ruin a moment, any sort of moment. Bella and I remain rooted in place, each of us incapable of speaking or moving.

Emmett is joyfully oblivious to our temporary disability and does a quick survey of the scene until his gaze falls on Alice, who is bouncing in her place, barely restraining her enthusiasm, with a sly look in her brilliant blue eyes.

"Who's this? Energizer bunny gone 'Devil Wears Prada'?"

Emmett's jibe shakes both Bella and I out of our funk, we exchange a fleeting glance and, just like that, we're both snorting like idiots. I guess that Emmett does have his own moments of genius, after all.

Apparently, though, Alice doesn't appreciate Emmett's creativity, and she's looking at him with a hint of classy contempt. I decide to put an end to her misery.

"Emmett, meet my sister Alice. Alice, this is…"

"This big oaf is my brother," says Bella, nudging Emmett's ribcage with her elbow, and probably giving herself a bruise in the process.

"Well, Eddie and Eddie's sister…the more the merrier! Come on in!"

Alice's eyes are about to pop out of their sockets. "Eddie? No, it's not Eddie. Actually, it's…"

My hand automatically covers her mouth to stop her from exposing my shame. If Emmett ever heard that she calls me '_Eddiekins_', he'd never let me live that down. Alice protests for a fraction of a second, but then lets go and returns to eyeing me sceptically, as we make our way through the hallway and towards the kitchen.

Alice, all too eager to intrude into Bella's home and life, follows Emmett without question while Bella lingers back to wait for me. Being near her again makes me feel giddy with anticipation and shudder with dread at the same time. The fact that she just smiled at me is but a small consolation. We still need to clear the air – I can only imagine what she's been thinking this past week. She could be calm and collected on the outside just out of courtesy, and because she's not hell-bent on making a scene in front of…her extended family.

I have never seen Bella's kitchen so crowded or cluttered. The kitchen island is decked in a whole array of breakfast fixings and a multitude of random papers. Two tall and blond figures are sitting on the stools around the island, nursing hot mugs in their hands. On our entrance, they both raise their eyes to see what the cat has dragged in. Emmett, strangely, is no longer in sight. Bella, the ever considerate hostess, makes the necessary introductions.

"Jasper, Rosalie, we have company."

Two pairs of similarly shaped hazel eyes are staring wide-eyed at me, two whole different kinds of surprise oozing in my direction.

The tall, lanky, prim and proper bloke must be Jasper. He shines up like a new penny even in his PJ bottoms and worn-in Charlatans t-shirt. Not a hair in disarray, not a crease in the t-shirt. Does this guy sleep upright, like horses? Does he sleep at all? I couldn't look like this even on a premiere night, donning one of the designer monkey suits that Alice constantly sends my way for those occasions.

I'm probably looking at him in utter disbelief, and a side dish of something else like slight contempt. This is Bella's closest friend and confidant. He's been her sidekick (or was she his sidekick? that's still unclear to me) for years, as well as her boss. Now he's owning her kitchen table, commanding the space with his whole presence. I get Bella's admiration for him in a flash – he exudes calm and confidence. On a good day, if I'm not on a sound stage, my effort at both is botched up at best and, in the face of this successful guy, I can't but plead defeat.

He's sizing me up, too. I can sense his gaze, alternating from me to Bella and back in a swift, almost imperceptible dance of unspoken questions and answers. In my peripheral vision, Bella finally nods at him.

"Edward, that's Jasper. Jazz, this is Edward, my Boss," says Bella, saving me from self-embarrassment.

Jasper extends his hand to shake mine. I oblige, trying to be a gentleman for Bella's sake. His steady and open gaze, though, tells me that his earlier scrutiny wasn't all to my disadvantage. There's no hostility in his features now.

"Good to finally meet you in person, Edward. This is an unexpected surprise," he adds, smiling in Bella's direction, as if to share a private joke.

"I told you it was the strangest phone call, Jazz." Bella giggles and, for a fleeting second, all is right in the universe. This was not a nasty surprise, this was a good surprise.

_Thank your sister, Cullen. She literally dragged your sorry ass over here._

"Hey! My phone calls are not strange!" Alice protests, playfully nudging Bella who, in turn, hugs her at the waist.

"I'm really glad you're here Alice, but…don't get me wrong…why the rush?"

Alice shrugs. "Why ever not? What else was there for me to do in London? Besides…we can go shopping together!"

Bella groans, while someone is snorting in the background. The unladylike sound comes from the tall and statuesque girl seated beside Jasper. Her features are a graceful, poised replica of his, down to her wavy hair and hazel eyes, except she carries herself like a Greek goddess. She could be a supermodel, indeed, whilst I know for certain that she is a ruthless investment banker. Go figure.

"Yes, let's see if a professional can actually kick a more adventurous fashion sense into BeeBee."

Rosalie's tone is ironic, and her words are certainly a jibe against Bella's 'dress for comfort' rule, but her voice is ice-cold, with an Oxonian accent that could cut glass.

I suddenly feel underdressed, undereducated and underperforming. Under. Period.

_Under whom, Cullen? Being under isn't all bad._

"Rose, come on…don't be the mean White Witch…You can go shopping with Alice, if you want." Bella tries to make peace and Rosalie's eyes dance back to my sister, but never meet my gaze.

"Yes, Rosalie, come shopping with me. I need to get rid of my obnoxious big brother anyway."

_Thanks, Alice._

Rosalie finally looks at me properly and freezes in place, all traces of her former haughtiness gone. Her mouth is about to form a perfect 'O', and the mug in her hand trembles perceptibly.

"Actually, Alice, why don't you all go today?" interjects Bella, whose gaze doesn't stray from Rosalie.

Rosalie nods and answers, her voice a little unsteady. "Yeah, I'm gonna go change. See you all later."

In a flash, Rosalie disappears from the room. One down, one to go. Emmett was never a problem but, now that his own sister is gone, Jasper is also free to take a broader survey of the room.

"Well, I take it that obnoxious big brothers are not wanted here today. I'll make myself scarce, too. Alice, Edward."

With a gentlemanly nod, Jasper disappears as well.

_Was that a lingering stare that your sister just gave him, Cullen?_

Suddenly, before my brain can register that I'm finally standing in the kitchen with Bella, almost alone, a booming, collective laugh erupts from the hallway.

"Oh no…what have they done now?" Bella says, hiding her face in her hands.

"Dude! You gotta be kidding me!" That would be Emmett. I can hear Rosalie snickering, but can't make out her words from the kitchen.

"Em, come on! It looks real enough to me…" That must be Jasper, trying to be the voice of reason amidst his snickers.

"No! It must be photoshopped! No fucking way!" Emmett again. Something must be highly amusing.

"Emmie? Anything the matter?"

"No, BeeBee, not really!" The snickering doesn't stop, and this alone convinces Bella to go check on them. Alice is in hot pursuit and, because I'm deadly curious myself, I follow them too.

Once in the hallway, I'm woefully regretting the series of unfortunate events that led me to stand in Bella's house, in front of her brother, her former boss and her best friend, while they're all admiring a shirtless, airbrushed picture of yours truly.

Damn Alice and all her glamourous photo shoots to the fiery pits of Hades…They're poring over a quasi life-size print of me, on a couch, clad only in dark denims. Bollocks.

Someone has sent a picture of shirtless me…to Bella? I hope, for all that is holy, that it wasn't Alice…

_What the fuck, Cullen? _

I want to dig a deep, bottomless hole and hide myself in it. Possibly forever.

An angry, frustrated hiss pierces through my musings. Bella's hissing and…growling?

"Emmett, what the heck are you doing with that parcel?"

Yes, definitely growling. I wouldn't want to be in Emmett's shoes right now…

"Emmett! I want an answer, like…yesterday!"

"Shit, BeeBee…I just…Come on, I was snooping around…Don't be mad…"

Bella exhales loudly, with a laboured sigh. Of course – if someone could be more embarrassed than I am now, it's her. The life-size print is for her. Now, who sent it?

"I. Am. Not. Mad," she enunciates, gritting her teeth.

"Oh. Yes. You. Are."

"Emmett, don't fucking contradict me. Toss me my mobile."

"Your what?"

"Emmett, not a good time to be dense. Hand Bella her frigging cell phone!" Rosalie saves the day, her snickers now long gone.

"Thanks, Rose."

Bella angrily punches a call into her iPhone and starts pacing the room. She's mortally angry – she only paces back and forth when she's mad. The five of us are staring at her thunderstruck, in silent disbelief.

Emmett surreptitiously waggles an eyebrow at me. I wave a dismissive hand to shush him. Alice looks sheepishly at me. Rosalie looks everywhere but at me. Jasper is anxiously looking at Bella.

"_Mamma! Voglio una spiegazione ADESSO!_" Bella's shouting on the phone in what sounds like Italian.

Alice mouths the words '_her mum_' to the rest of us. I motion for her to explain us what's happening. We all move back to the kitchen, but stay within earshot.

Jasper whispers to Alice. "What did she say?"

"You all shut up and I'll translate. She asked her mum for an explanation just now."

Rosalie nods. "Figures, the parcel is from Renee. It arrived this morning."

"_Ma come cazzo ti è venuta in mente un'idea del genere?_"

We all look up to Alice, who obliges. "What the fuck possessed you to do something like that?"

"_Tu pensavi? Tu pensavi? Ma fammi il piacere…_"

"You thought? You thought? Oh come on…"

"Wow," Emmett stage-whispers. "This is like a press conference. I bet it happens to you all the time, eh, Eddie?" I can't but raise a helpless eyebrow. Leave it to Emmett, again, to find comic relief in the situation.

"_Col cazzo che mi hai fatto un favore! Ho appena fatto una figura di merda pazzesca!_"

"You've done me no fucking favour! You've just embarrassed the shit out of me!"

Alice is awesome. It never occurred to me that this – their mutual fluency with the Italian language – is something else she shares with Bella.

"Emmett, why is she shouting in Italian?" I ask, before I can help myself. Jasper precedes him.

"She reverts back to her roots when she's really mad, especially with her mum."

"Yeah, like that Renee can't pretend she didn't understand," adds Emmett.

"How many languages does she speak, _exactly_?" I remember she reads French, as well.

"Five and a half, at the last count," answers Emmett, looking rather smug.

_Bollocks, Cullen! That's four and a half more than you can muster…_

"_Mamma, per l'ultima volta…_"

"Mum, for the last time," Alice translates again. I might consider bringing her along next time I need an interpreter.

"_Il suddetto strafigo si trova attualmente nella mia cucina! Ecco, adesso lo sai! Grazie!_" Bella hangs up, abruptly.

"The said hot piece of ass is currently located in my kitchen! Now you know! Thanks!"

Alice ends her diplomatic effort with a flourish, but the result is devastating to me.

_Hot piece of ass, Cullen! What's devastating in that?_

I can hear Bella plopping down on the floor with a strangled huff. I'd love to run and comfort her but even I am too embarrassed to do that. Besides, I'd feel like someone was intruding on us – _me_. A shirtless, oversized version of me. It makes me too self-conscious.

I want to move, but remain frozen in place instead. I feel air rustling around me and, as I turn to look over my surroundings, I see that everyone else has left the room.

I sit down on one of the stools around the kitchen island. I'm trying to puzzle everything back into some logical shape. Bella's mum lives in Milan. Bella's mum sent her a life-size picture of me from the Armani photo shoot. Alice staged that photo shoot, she was the fashion editor in charge.

Only glitch in all this? I don't do logical very well and, of course, I draw a blank.

Now, fuck me sideways, but I can't remember who the photographer was for that gig…

_Bollocks._

Bella's in the living room, eyeing up close and personal an improved version of me, shirtless and cocky, leisurely sprawled on a plush couch. What does she think of me now? What is she going to do with the picture? Throw it down a ravine? Make a bonfire of it? Throw _me _down a ravine?

"You once told me to stop thinking. Sometimes you should take your own advice, you know."

I am startled by her sudden reappearance and almost jump in my seat. Her voice holds a hint of an underlying, relaxed chuckle and, once again, I am amazed by her reactions. My eyes dart up to look at her in earnest.

"I am sorry for barging in like this, B."

She sits at the island, right across from me, and hands me a steaming mug of tea.

"You had no hope against Alice. You think I don't know that, already?" She sounds amused. Amused is good. Amused is way better than pissed, embarrassed and ashamed.

"Still, we barged in…with shitty timing, to boot."

"Don't sweat it, Boss. I'm the one who should be seven shades of embarrassed, not you." She's still calling me Boss. At least, this means she's not quitting.

"Maybe, but I'm the one who just got ogled by a throng of near- strangers."

Bella chuckles, nursing her mug in hands, as if trying to absorb all of its heat into her fingers.

"You know, I think it actually made Rosalie's day…" she trails off, still chuckling as if she was enjoying some private joke.

"I don't think she likes me that much, B." Or at least, that's what I can say, gauging her earlier reaction.

"You're right, she doesn't like you." Why is Bella's tone teasing, almost smug?

"She absolutely _idolises _you. You narrowly escaped a fangirl attack just now."

"What the hell?" I almost drop my mug. "Is she going to post this on a blog? Steal this mug and sell it on e-bay?"

I thought I'd be safe here, in my new hometown, in my own new home. Crap, in Bella's home. Bella, though, senses my discomfort and quickly comes to my rescue, moving her stool to sit close to me.

"She'd never do that, Edward. I had a pep talk with her a few days ago, about your safety, about the fact that I can't really tell her what my job is about, and I think she understands. Her job, as much as Jasper's, is all about confidentiality and trust."

She looks at me tentatively, before brushing her hand on my forearm. Her touch is meant to feel comforting, but to me, it feels heavenly, and leaves a trail of fire in its wake. I turn towards her, and find her face only inches from mine.

When I offer no reply, Bella goes on. "She gets it, she really does. She was…awe-struck, more than anything else. I guess it'd happen to me, as well…"

She trails off, but her faint blush gives her away. I never thought I'd have some kind of weapon or bargaining tool over her. I can't help the smug overtone in my voice.

"Now, would it?" And just like that, she looks away, unable to bear my probing gaze any longer.

She's got a point. I need to listen to my own fucking advice and stop thinking.

In a swift and uncharacteristically smooth move, I stand up to tower over her and my fingers gently lead her chin up towards me again, until I can pore into her bottomless, warm chocolate brown eyes. Now I am the moron who is sorely tempted to look away, because the expression in her eyes is just…beyond words.

"Last time I was in a kitchen with you…I did something unexpected…"

She stands up to face me, the distance between us now dwindling to almost nothing. Her hand runs up to brush my own, that's still tucked under her chin. Her voice is hesitant, almost a strained whisper.

"You…you…remember?"

My other hand cups her left cheek, and I'm now cradling her whole glorious face in my hands. They tremble, because they're holding a fragile, precious treasure. I don't want to spoil this moment. I want it to last forever – and fuck off every sorry moron who might choose to cross the threshold right this minute.

"Of course I do, Isabella."

She closes her eyes and sighs. I'm wondering whether it's a good sign or a horrible one.

"You…bolted…"

My brow furrows in guilt and frustration. She's right – I bailed on her, I kissed her and then ran away. I made her think I didn't care. Now is my one chance to rectify this fuck-up.

"B…please, look at me. I can't do this if you don't look at me."

Slowly, still tentatively, she opens her eyes and raises her gaze to meet my troubled one.

"I panicked, B. I was fucking wasted. Then your big, brawny brother barged in and I panicked. I was a bloody idiot. I still am. I shouldn't even be allowed near you with a ten-foot pole, and I'm rambling. I'm fucking jet-lagged and I'm rambling. Bollocks, I can't even explain myself in English without a curse every three words… Do you really speak five and a half languages?"

She chuckles briefly, but makes no move to escape my grasp.

"And why are you still here? How can you bear my presence in your home? How can you even bear me touching you?"

Her eyes are ablaze with an emotion I know very well. It's the same simmering fire that brews in my own eyes whenever I think of her, whenever I'm near her. I am speechless for a second, totally and utterly dumbstruck.

"I am still here…because I remember too, Edward."

I finally sigh, heaving a strangled breath I don't know I was holding, even through my disconnected ranting. I touch my forehead to hers, in a frantic attempt to get her even closer to me. My nose grazes hers, feeling her silken skin against mine.

"God, Isabella, don't deny me. Please…"

Almost imperceptibly, she nods. This is all the cue I need.

There is no more distance between us, as my lips crash against hers, hungrily, with the pent-up tension of all these past weeks. I revel in the feeling of Bella finally giving in to me, as she's doing now, without hesitation, while I'm aware for the first time, with every fibre of my being, of what it actually feels to hold her and kiss her.

The sketchy images from our last encounter don't even nearly do her justice, blurred by my drunken haze. I imagined this scene countless times since I bailed on her last week. Nothing I conjured in my clueless mind could measure up to this.

Still kissing her, I walk her backwards till she's trapped between me and the kitchen counter. I am completely lost in her – the feel of her hands through my hair, of her lips on mine, of her taste in my mouth, and all I want to do is feel close to her. I wrap my arms around her, in a nearly bone-crushing grasp, till I hear a strangled chuckle and a gasp. She slowly breaks free from our kiss, her heavily panting breath brushes my lips, her breath mixing with mine. I feel her stand up on tiptoes to nuzzle my nose – I've forgotten that she's so much shorter than me.

I let her breathe, but I can't stop kissing her either. I move to pay homage to the corner of her mouth, to her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck until I reach my new favourite spot – the hollow of her collarbone. Her skin here feels like silk and honey and, while I'm showering her with butterfly kisses, I feel her shiver under my touch.

"Anything wrong, Isabella?" I whisper against her skin.

"No…" she whispers back, breathlessly. "You were just…"

"I was just…?" I tease, my hands treading through her long mahogany hair. She chuckles again.

"You were crushing me, Edward."

My name on her lips and I'm a goner. It's my turn to shiver, also because my lone brain cell – after moving its permanent residence to my groin – has finally registered that Bella's hands are travelling around my waist, walking the fine line between the waistline of my jeans and the overheated skin of my hips.

"God, Isabella…I'm about to do that again…" I trail off, lost in the feel of Bella's lips on mine again. In a last bout of sanity, I lift her up on the counter, so that her face is now level with mine and I'm standing between her legs, that she promptly wraps around me.

"I've got _you_ in a vice now," she whispers against my lips, her voice sultry and her eyes bright. "And I'm not letting you go."

"I don't want you to," I whisper in her ear, her heady scent invading my senses.

I hold her tight to my chest, my forehead flush against hers, and as I'm leaning in to shower her in what I mean to be some more tender kisses, I suddenly feel her hands on my bare skin, beneath my t-shirt, her fingers treading a fiery path along my abs and ribs. In a most inappropriate, hormone-fuelled reflex reaction, I flex my hips against her centre.

She gasps.

"I feel you, Edward…"

Damn her and my name on her lips. I keep kissing her, my hands tangled in her hair and my hips relentlessly seeking friction against her core.

I feel her rake her nails on my back as she whimpers in my ear. This turns me on immensely and shocks the hell out of me at the same time.

My lone brain cell miraculously breaks its hard-wired connection to my dick, and reality comes crashing down on me. I'm in Bella's kitchen, with her legs wrapped around my waist, kissing her like there's no tomorrow, and I'm dry-humping her like a sloppy teen-ager in a broom closet at school. And I forget – she is about to come apart in my arms, but I am about to blow my load, fully clothed, with a few hours of jet-lag on my sorry ass, and the whole of her sodding extended family scattered around the house.

This isn't right. This is neither worthy nor respectful of her. She is worth so much more than this, and though I'll probably be sporting blue balls for God knows how long, I will myself to stop and calm down.

My hands descend from her hair to her shoulders, so that I can hold her tight to my chest, and instead of messily ravaging her mouth, I start peppering another wave of kisses along her jaw, her cheeks and her forehead. I'm also trying to calm down, which is proving to be quite an effort, with her legs still wrapped around me, forcing my shameless boner against her. I finally tuck her head under my chin, and try to get some distance.

"Before I fuck this up again, B…" She hums lazily against my chest, with a vibration that goes unmistakably to my groin. This will probably be the least romantic and most anticlimactic thing I'll ever say in my life, but I've learned the hard way that assuming won't ever get me anywhere.

"Before I fuck this up again…I have to tell you that…"

These words catch her attention. Her pools of melted chocolate dart up to look me square in the eye. "Anything wrong, Edward?"

"No, nothing wrong. That was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me…but…"

A pained look contorts her beautiful features. Damn, I was trying to fix things and I'll end up with another sorry mess on my hands.

"You deserve so much more, B. We don't need to sneak out, steal moments in your kitchen. You deserve better than me dry-humping you like that. What if anyone walked in on us, again?"

She looks relieved now, with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

"You mean, with our track record? Yeah, I don't think kitchens are so good for us…"

"Kitchens are pure bliss for us, B. I just want to do things right by you. I want there to still be an '_us_' tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…"

"You do?" She leans her head to one side, in her trademark 'deep in thought' expression.

"I do, B. You don't think it's totally unprofessional, unethical, inappropriate, and whatever high-end negative adjective you can come up with?"

She laughs. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

"What did you eat for breakfast, a Thesaurus?"

"Are you deliberately avoiding my questions, B?" I like this playful Bella, and I play along with her.

"When you talk about non-issues, I always do, Boss."

I frown, because she's pulled the Boss card. This doesn't sit entirely well with me.

"Would you mind elaborating that for the non-legally trained?"

She hops off the counter and escapes from my grasp to resume her seat at the kitchen island and pour herself another mug of tea.

"If I really thought that was unprofessional or whatever …I would have quit this job the day after Angela's party. I didn't quit. Are you firing me?"

"Hell, no! Are you crazy? I couldn't even stand on my own two feet without you, let alone the rest. I want you there with me, B. I want you there for the right reasons, and for all the wrong reasons."

"My brain tells me we shouldn't be working together, more correctly, that I shouldn't be working for you, but the rest of me sings an entirely different song," she says quietly, looking softly at me over the rim of her oversized red Starbucks mug.

"Well, if you value democracy, you should make your brain shut up and go along with the majority. I'm on their side, too, you know?"

"I think…I think there could be a way to make this work, but you won't like it," she adds, her eyes narrowed to shrewd slits. This is Bella in planning mode, she's going in for the kill, she's looking just as she did before she handed Aro Ziegfeld his ass on a silver platter. She's dangerous.

"Let me decide whether I'll like it or not. Hit me with your stroke of genius, first" I quip, taking my seat at the island beside her – our negotiating table.

"First – we have to tell Angela, she has to know. Second – we keep this under wraps. You don't need this kind of publicity and neither do I."

She knows me too well. She knows that I'd want to scream this from the rooftops, parade her everywhere, from interviews to after parties, from photo shoots to red carpets. Bloody hell, she does half this shit with me anyway. She'd just be…promoted to another role. Why would she be opposed to this? Is this because of the two men in black at Angela's party?

I sigh, annoyed and bewildered. I know I'll end up agreeing to whatever she comes up with, because it'll be the smartest idea anyway, but I want to know what prompted her to concoct this plan in the first place.

"Yes to Angela knowing, no to the rest. Why the all-round secrecy? I don't understand. It's not like you're not with me all the time anyway. I bet the guys from the gossip rags have even sent you Christmas cards…"

She stifles a chuckle – maybe I got that one right. Her good cheer vanishes in a flash, replaced by the same look of forlorn pain I just witnessed minutes ago.

"What if there's no '_us_' one day, Edward? Where will that leave us? Where will that leave _me_?"

Rejection, that's what that look was. She's afraid this will end badly. She's afraid I'll be a total asshole and dump her to the curb. As if… But why would she…?

"God, B. I'd never…"

"Maybe you wouldn't, but they would. Those guys who stalk my every move, snap a picture each time I leave Angela's building or enter a restaurant or studio lot with you. Those guys would. And I'm done running away. I won't run away this time, whatever happens. I'm not losing my life, my work and my brother over this. I'm running a huge risk as it is. Please, Edward, if you care about me, don't prove me wrong."

She's shaking, and her eyes are moist. She's close to tears, and once again, I did this to her. Maybe I just walk away now, before I hurt her again, before I do much more damage. Before Jaspers sues my sorry arse. Before Emmett finds out, cuts my balls off, and snaps my neck for good measure.

Suddenly, I'm furious with the bloke who damaged her so much that she'd be afraid to step into another relationship. What I see, and what she said, though, confirm my fears. Someone hurt her before and she had to pick up the pieces alone and walk away. Who is this asshole, so that I can hunt him down and kill ?

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, willing her to turn and face me. As soon as she does, I cup her face in my hands, wiping her traitor tears away with my thumbs.

"I don't want you to cry over this, I don't want you to cry over us. Hell, if it makes you feel better, I won't ever touch you again, even if it kills me."

Something inside her clicks and I feel her relax in my arms, as her own arms go round my back to hold me.

"I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, never doubt that. We'll do this your way. I won't ever question your judgment on this again…but…I have two conditions."

She sniffles and then looks up at me again, a vaguely curious expression on her face.

"Which would be?"

"One – no more 'no-go' questions. Two – go out on a date with me."

Her brow scrunches up for a second. She's seriously debating on this.

"You want to go out on a date with me?"

"Does it really sound so funny to you, B? Would it be such a disgrace to be out on a date with me?"

She scoffs. "No…it's just…it sounds surreal, you know? We hang out together all the time."

My turn to scoff. "But we're working all the time, B. You're hauling my arse from here to there, you play watchdog with rogue journalists at press junkets, help me read through my lines. We never do anything fun, except at Angela's parties. And those are hardly what I'd call fun. She says it's networking, and you had a lot of networking to do last time, if I recall."

An uneasy look passes on her features for a fleeting second, and then it's gone. I suddenly notice she's not arguing about the no-go questions, just the date. I may have an in on her secrets, after all.

_If you don't screw up again, Cullen._

"I just want to know you, B. Really know you. Know what you were like when you were ten years old, if there were guys in school that pulled your braids, if you ever got a bad grade in your life, if your mum and dad ever screwed up a birthday or got you the wrong Christmas present, if you're afraid of the dark, of bats, or vampires, if you ever wore braces to get that breathtaking smile of yours, if your hair shows off its red hues in the sunlight, if your skin looks like silk over crystal by candlelight…and if it looks the same over the rest of your body, and if I'll ever get you to look at me like this again…tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…"

Softly, tenderly, her knuckles graze my cheek.

"Are you for real?" she whispers, planting a ghost of a kiss on my lips. If it's a ghost of a kiss, why are my knees weak all of a sudden? Grown man, my arse…

"No one wrote those lines for me…It's just what you do to me…"

She kisses me again, long and deep, her tongue luring me in, enticing and bewitching me and I have no restraint. Kitchens are pure bliss for us.

"Yes," she whispers against my lips.

"Yes, what?" I haven't been this light-headed since my parents took me to Blackpool when I was ten years old. That was one hell of a rollercoaster ride, but still pales compared to Bella's kisses.

"Both, Edward, both. The questions and the date."

"Really? I can ask you whatever I want?"

She nods against my chest, her hands once again roaming beneath my t-shirt. I'm beginning to think t-shirts are highly overrated.

"Sure you can. But if you want to begin with the embarrassing stuff, I'd better show you up to my room. Guess it's as good a start as any."

"Ok," I reply, breathlessly, kissing her forehead.

"But you need to call Angela first, and tell her exactly where you are at the moment. She needs to know."

Bollocks. I knew there'd be a downside to this…but on the upside…

_You're going to see Bella's room, Cullen._

_

* * *

_

No songs this time around. I guess these two deserve a break. I hope I'll be able to post one more before Christmas...but I can't make any promises right now, so hide the pitchforks ,-)

_There's a little known story out there that has caught my attention - Lost & Found, by JenRoxanne. Give it a go, and leave her some love. Your brain will start reeling with questions just as mine did!  
_


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Hide the pitchforks, ladies...here I am...I know it's been like...forever. Had to deal with a very crappy end of the old and start of the new year. BUT...here I am. Not making any promises on the forthcoming posting schedule, though :) On the upside: this is the longest chapter EVER...Enjoy :)

Thanks to everyone out there for your love and support. This has been only partially beta'ed by the awesome resident trio who make sense of my rogue commas: Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe. Will update when all rogue commas are fixed.

Shout-outs for the week: All the girls at TFFA, each and every one of you. You all rock. KitsuShel, for letting me share with her the jewel that is Parachute to the very end. Sniff. Busymommy and AstonMartin, who are the dynamic duo behind MoorWard (which WILL be continued, anyway). To ButterflyBetty, for recc'ing this sight unseen and for reviewing every single chapter. To BellaDonnaCullen, for the jewel that is TPoL.

Update on the forthcoming outtakes of BCG: Outtake for Vicky - BPOV of the third chapter (i.e. the flight when CluelessWard sit right beside her); outtake for Annie - Marcus's POV of the Christmas Party; Gabby's outtake - TBD. Gabby, give me a shout whenever.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

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**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 19**

_Edward _

I'm climbing the stairs to Bella's room, my hand firmly intertwined into hers. It's more like she's dragging me upstairs. I follow very, very willingly and don't mind being dragged in the least.

The house has gone almost eerily quiet. It seems like everybody's vanished into a sudden crack in the space-time continuum. Doctor Who has moved to LA.

"Where has everyone gone?"

Bella chuckles. Of course she knows what they're up to. "Well…"

"B, not fair to keep me in the dark…I've had my embarrassing moment today, I'd like to avoid any repeat performances," I urge, knowing that she'll have some fun at my expense anyway.

"Scattered around the house? Going at it like bunnies behind closed doors? Hitting the sauna? Your guess is as good as mine," she answers, shrugging.

"B, look me in the eye. I want to see your face while you say that. And don't mention going at it like bunnies again if my sister is in the near vicinity."

I gulp uneasily, realising just now that while Rosalie and Emmett could be legitimately jumping each other's bones, this tally would leave Alice to the mercy of Jasper's devices. I do not even dare venture to imagine this possibility. It's just too disturbing.

Bella turns around on the top step of the stairs to face me, a sly grin on her face. She was kidding me.

"B, you fibber. You were fucking with me, weren't you?"

She laughs – a care-free, musical belly laugh. Unladylike and unrestrained, but so purely Bella that it tugs at my heartstrings and, before I know, I'm laughing myself.

"Well…not technically…."

I huff and try to give her my tame, diluted version of a stink eye. I'm an actor, but I'm no good at this. She smiles again – I'm a goner.

"Alright, guilty as charged. Sorry, I couldn't resist…" she trails off. She's clearly implying something else and I want to know where her reasoning is headed.

"Did you notice…?" I can't even phrase a full-fledged question, because I'm not sure myself what I want (or don't want) to know.

"That Alice made goo-goo eyes at Jasper? That he kept staring at her ass?"

Bella's walking down a long corridor and is speaking over her shoulder.

"He was staring at what?" I'm nearly bellowing, but I'm past caring.

"Don't go all big brother on her, now. _She_ was laying it on pretty thick, if you ask me."

I can't help but gape like a fish and stare at her, wide-eyed. Bella stops outside a huge oaken double door and unlocks it. Why would anyone lock their own bedroom, in their own house?

"I know you're probably thinking I'm a step ahead of crazy, for locking my bedroom like this, as if it's nothing short of the Bat-Cave. With Emmett in the house, you really don't want to know what he comes up with. This is my safe haven. It must be an Em-free zone."

"Do you read minds, B?" I ask, hugging her from behind, skimming her neck with my nose. It's liberating, to be able to think I can just touch her like this and then _do_ it…because I can. Because I want to. Whenever I want to.

"No, Boss. There was just a question mark the size of Ireland scrunched up between your wild eyebrows, that's all."

Busted. She knows me too well.

"Wild eyebrows? What's wrong with my eyebrows?" I can't decide whether this is meant to be complimentary or not, while I follow her through the door.

For a split second, I remain waiting for an answer that doesn't come, when I find myself glued to the back of the closed door instead. I feel the warmth of Bella's body tantalisingly close to me, and every nerve ending in my own body is aware of her presence.

My Business Class Girl is tackling me and I feel a devious grin form on my face, before I even have the time to realise that she's just grabbed my hands in hers. I can't move. That is, I could move, if I put my mind to it, because I certainly outweigh her, and I can physically overpower her without batting an eyelid, but who am I to complain?

_Let her tackle you, Cullen. Good things come to those who get tackled and all that shit._

I decide to be helpful and bend my neck slightly to nuzzle her nose with mine. My gesture is meant to be tender, but she doesn't want tender now – she's attacking me.

Her hands are roaming all over my arms and shoulders, till they find purchase in my dishevelled hair, where they take up permanent residence. While her hands are caressing my hair, I feel her sweetness longing, but her mouth tells a different story and her kisses soon turn into a tsunami of sensations – hot, needy and lustful.

And here I was, thinking I'd be the one relegated forever to the role of the horny, frustrated, blue-balled teenager. It turns out that my Bella is as eager as I am to lay her hands on me. I'm more than happy to oblige. My hands are now free to roam over her figure and, right on cue, they land on her ass. However, my reliable friend – my lone and overwrought brain cell – has other ideas and saves me from a potential fuck-up by redirecting my hands to her shoulders. Exerting a considerable amount of restraint, I go back to hugging her to my chest, and slow down our heated make-out session to an equally hot, but more politically correct, array of butterfly kisses on her collarbone, neck and jaw.

I place one last tender and chaste kiss to her lips and finally open my eyes to drown myself in her gaze. Her luscious brown eyes are bright and shiny, and there's a shade of molten milk chocolate I've never seen there, maybe because I've never been allowed to look so closely before.

"I think I'd like to have a look around, since it's my turn to ask embarrassing questions…" I break the silence with a teasing whisper, to test her reaction.

"You may look wherever you want," she answers, still breathless.

I mentally pat myself on the back, because I did that to her. My Business Class Girl, who is usually all put together and perfectly in control, is a writhing and panting mess in my arms, just because I spent a few minutes kissing her and let her tackle me against her bedroom door.

I realise the potentially interesting implications of her last sentence. '_Wherever I want_' has possibilities. She still has a lot more brain cells than I do, though, because she catches the newest hint of a sly sparkle in my eyes and cuts me off before I can even protest.

"That is, my underwear drawer is still off-limits to you, Boss."

She calls me Boss, but she's the bossy one now. My sorry arse doesn't mind one bit. While she's staring at me arms akimbo, with a determined look on her face which, by the way, is still beautifully flushed by our most recent activities, I take a good look around me. Her room will probably tell me more about her than she's ever meant to till now.

Bella's room is literally huge – this house is built on a whole different scale as compared to the houses I've been used to, even to my parents' house in London. We've never been crammed into a tiny crib, but this is really unprecedented. Alice's flat in Milan is fancy, but it's smallish because she couldn't afford a bigger one on her salary in the area that she chose, close to the fashion district. My own last flat in LA – before I happily became Bella and Emmett's neighbour – was a hole in the wall.

The whole wall opposite the entrance is a floor-to-ceiling window, with spotless panes from wall to wall. There's a king-sized bed to the left side of the door and another tiny door to one side of the bed – that must lead into her bathroom. The bed faces the gigantic window. There's a long desk lined against the wall opposite the bathroom door, and shelves with books and music line every other free surface in the room, all of them neatly arranged on the shelves. She must have hundreds of books. Even better, she must have thousands of CDs. I must go through this collection and pick her brain a bit – after I've borrowed some of her music which, no doubt, will offer me some interesting choices.

What really captures my attention, though, is her desk. There's a shiny and majestic iMac in a corner and her familiar laptop is right next to it. I see her even more familiar blackberry and her planner open on a random page. There are stacks of papers everywhere, randomly scattered with sticky notes that bear her unmistakably neat handwriting. Pens, pencils, highlighters and a couple of empty mugs dot the remaining free surface of the humongous desk. I am pleasantly surprised to see this disorganised and colourful clutter, because I'd kind of pegged her as a neat freak – apparently she's not, or at least, not in closed quarters.

There are three corkboards on the wall above the desk, each of them has a heading – '_past_', '_present_', '_work_'. Now that's interesting. The corkboards are replete with papers, postcards, photographs, and whole lot of rumpled concert stubs. This is where I really get to pick her brain.

"May I have a closer look at that?" I ask, pointing to the wall of mysteries. She nods, her adorable blush creeping up on her cheeks while she's worrying her lower lip. Jackpot – there's something worth sifting through on those boards.

I pace closer and closer to the wall and hear a graceful thud beside me. She's hopped on the desk so she can hover while I conduct my very thorough investigation.

_My name is Cullen, Nosy Cullen._

I start with '_past_' and let my eyes wander over the corkboard. Concert stubs are the dominant note here. Music is my other realm, besides acting (even if I say so myself) and I'm itching to know what kind of music Bella listens to. We never talk about things while we're working, we just…work till we drop.

The stubs are all crumpled and worn and date back to the early '00s, even to the last scraps of the 90s. It's an impressive, eclectic mix – Charlatans, Pearl Jam, Alice In Chains, Blur, Oasis, Metallica, Depeche Mode, Eagles, Muse, Soundgarden, _Rage Against The Machine_? Wow – my girl is even more hardcore than I am. She loves her grunge rockers. At a safe distance, I hope.

There's also a coffee-blotted flyer with a list of songs. I've seen tons of these – it's a set list. I recognise some of the songs. Good old 70s rock – Led Zeppelin and The Who, mainly – and a few newer tunes thrown into the mix. I've never heard the name of the band, though. The heading reads '_The Quads_' – 13 May 2001, with the name and logo of an Oxford pub. I glance sideways at her in silent question, pointing my finger at the flyer.

"Who are these fellows?" I ask, my curiosity now definitely piqued.

She answers with a ghost of a smile on her face. "It was Jasper's and Marcus's band at Oxford. That was their first real gig, the very first year I was at Oxford. Rose kind of roped me into tagging along once she had found out it was my birthday and I wasn't going to celebrate it."

I nod, pensively digesting this first glimpse into her past. Why wouldn't my beautiful, fun-loving girl want to celebrate her birthday? A pang of unease stabs me, only to vanish with the relief that at least she'd had Rosalie and Jasper by her side.

My hand motions to all the concert stubs. "Did you really go to all those concerts? I mean, Bella…Rage Against The Machine? Metallica? I'm impressed."

She snorts. "Why? You thought I was more of a Take That chick? Because that's a deal-breaker waiting to happen…"

My eyes are about to burst out of their sockets. "You wouldn't…over that?"

She smirks again, betraying her jibe to me, but averts her eyes quickly as she answers. "There's nothing to break yet, Edward."

Just like that, her mood shifts and I'm suddenly afraid I've overstepped an unseen mark. My hand inches closer to her form, graciously perched on her desk beside me.

"I was only kind of worried that you'd get manhandled among that crowd of gruff grunge rockers, B. That's all." I whisper, running a soothing hand through her hair. She sighs and relaxes into my touch. She raises her head to gaze steadily at me again. Fuck-up averted. Another self-pat on the back.

_Good save, Cullen. Keep it up._

"And you think Jasper and Marcus would let me go alone? They were always along for the ride and Rose, too. It was always the four of us, for so long. Seems like another life now."

She sounds almost wistful, nostalgic. I remember Emmett's account of her time at Oxford – she must have been a model student. I realise that I thought she was a model student, whilst it seems that she was hopping from one gig to another the whole time. How did she do that?

"Question mark again, Boss. What are you thinking? That I was all play and no work?" She smirks again.

"I'm quite put out that you're so diverted by this, B. This was supposed to be _my_ fun. I want to dig skeletons out of closets. I bet yours are arranged in alphabetical order or some shit."

She snorts. Business Class Girl snorts. And it's a delightful sound – how can she look so otherworldly beautiful to me and then be so refreshingly real?

_It's called being pussy-whipped, Cullen. She can do no wrong. Get used to it._

"Oh, Boss, you'll get your fun alright. Learn to look in the right places."

No shit, Sherlock. This is a clue. I follow her gaze and, invariably, it lands on something of interest. It's a picture. It must be quite old. Not the sepia, crackled type of old. Just worn. Aged. Well-cherished. Like the embarrassing baby pictures my mum keeps in her wallet. I had an unruly blond mop then and she apparently used to drag me around with a contraption that looked alarmingly like a harness. Yes, I was a rebel kid.

Something in the picture, other than its supposed timestamp, irrationally captures my attention. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Lot A – '_A Picture Of An Unknown Guy In A Park_', starting at the modest price of a punch in the gut.

The picture shows an annoyingly good-looking guy lying on his side in the middle of a lawn, his right arm propped up to support his head. He's in a white v-neck t-shirt, with well-worn, low-rise jeans. There's a sliver of skin showing between his t-shirt and the waistline of his jeans. He's got a cocky grin on his face and his eyes are so blue that my head hurts. This is a handsome arsehole.

Worse, I've seen this handsome arsehole before.

He was one of the men in black at Angela's Christmas party. The one that put his hands on B and twirled her around as if she was a weightless butterfly. The one whose presence indirectly persuaded me that getting trashed was a good way to spend the evening.

Mad, irrational jealousy flares in my chest. I really see red. I want to punch _him_ in the gut now. Why is this fucker proudly displayed on Bella's corkboard? I feel my hand inch closer to the picture and I must actively fight the urge to snatch it from its place and rip it to shreds.

I'm about to grill Bella about it, but we're rudely – and mercifully? – interrupted by her phone, blaring David Bowie's '_Rebel Rebel_' all over the place. I've never heard this ringtone before. It must be someone new.

_Come on, Cullen, it's not like you know how many ringtones she has. Or do you?_

She glances at the screen and groans at the same time. I decide it would be the epitome of rudeness to rejoice of her evident discomfort and settle for '_mildly relieved_' instead. This doesn't mean that I'm not itching to know who's calling. She raises one finger, indicating that she has to take the call and that she'll make this as quick and painless as she can.

"What can I do for you, Sir?"

Suddenly, she sounds a lot more British than she usually does. Her accent is so Oxonian that it could cut glass and I get the impression that she's a) doing this on purpose and b) '_Sir_' is not meant as a sign of respect. Who the heck is she talking to?

She nods and hums absentmindedly as the speaker at the other end rambles on and on. She looks uninterested until I see her eyebrows twitch. Her eyes dart to the golf ball on her desk and I can tell she's fighting the urge to grab it and start tossing it from hand to hand. She's nervous and pissed.

"No can do, Sir. I'm on holiday and I'm not cutting back on my days off to fly my ass to NY. I'll have to be there at the beginning of February anyway, can't this really wait until then?"

I shoot her a questioning look, wondering if everything is quite all right. She shakes her head and mouths '_I'm OK_'.

"Well, since apparently we can't work it out for ourselves, why don't you call my fucking agent and take this up with her?"

Damn. She's really pissed. Whoever it is at the other end of the line, I'm almost sorry for them. I wouldn't unleash a rabid Bella even on my worst enemy…but on second thoughts…

"Marcus, that's final. I can't drop everything the second you're asking, because I'm not under any contractual obligation yet. If you're dying to get me signed, then you should probably be more accommodating. Angela will confirm the same fucking thing I've just told you – that this will have to wait until I can optimise my schedule and blend it with Edward's."

She's talking to _Marcus_? I want to hit myself with a very heavy and blunt object. I want to kick my sorry arse for being so dense.

_They're the same fucking guy, Cullen._

Marcus at Oxford, Marcus on the corkboard, Marcus the man in black, Marcus on the phone. That's one guy, but why do I want to pummel all four of them?

While I'm lost in my murderous plans, Bella wraps up the conversation and hangs up. Time to stick to my guns and pop a very, very embarrassing question to my Business Class Girl.

"B, I hate to ask this, but…it's a kind of no-go question, so I'll ask away."

She eyes me warily, but with a small smile forming on her lips as she resumes her perch on the desk, after shuffling some papers around to make more room for her perky ass.

_Not that you're watching, Cullen._

"What's the deal with this Marcus bloke, anyway?"

Now I'm the cowardly bastard who can't look her in the eye, because she would call me out on my bullshit. I can't look at her, but I have to bask in her presence, so I get closer to the desk and to her, until I'm standing between her legs. She is eye-level with me, or would be, if I actually looked her in the eye.

She sighs, but gingerly places a less than perfectly manicured finger to raise my chin minutely. As a reflex reaction, I lean into her touch as my eyes roam over her features. This girl plays me like an instrument and I've not even taken her out on a first, honest-to-god date _yet_.

"I told you it was always the four of us at Oxford, right? Marcus is Jasper's age. They were roommates. They were in the same band. I was a total music and literature junkie, just as they were. Marcus and I happened to share both our majors, so we had a lot of classes and professors in common, minus the age difference. It went kind of…downhill from there after that. I haven't seen him in the last…six years? I had no idea I'd see him again."

A lot of details, but no real meat there, Business Class Girl. I need to refine my questioning techniques.

"This still doesn't tell me two more things I want to know."

"Fire away, Edward. You can ask me anything," she says, as she wraps her arms around my waist. Damn her. Is this is her version of a diversion strategy? Because my dick thinks it's working.

"Who was he to you, B? I need to know. I need you to tell me. God, stop that hand right where it is or I'll not be answerable for the consequences…"

It's a winning strategy. She's probably got this shit patented, with her sneaky quasi-lawyer skills. Her hands are drawing lazy circles on the fiery skin of my lower back. I hiss, willing my hips not to respond to her touch.

Her forehead falls to my shoulder and, as she answers softly, her breath sends goose bumps on my collarbone and chest. I'm a goner, again.

"Jasper developed a very annoying tendency of setting me up on blind dates, because he was afraid I'd end up glued to the shelves of the Bodleian library forever. Halfway through my freshman year, a very clueless Marcus happened to be one of them. Jasper had pulled a prank on both of us, quite unaware of the possible consequences."

"And?" I prod on, now circling her waist with my arms, my hands sneaking up her back. Two can play that game, B. Let's see if I still have the hang of it.

"We dated for a while. End of story." Dismissive. Non-committal. Uh-oh. Definite no-go zone.

"And for all the whisky in Scotland, how in fuck did he end up at Angela's? How did he end up on your corkboard? Why is he still on your corkboard? Why is he making demands on your time? Can I punch him silly next time I see him?"

She pulls away from me minutely and I panic instantly, only to relax again when she doesn't release my waist from her tender grip. She only leans her head to the side and eyes me sceptically, with a half-smile playing on her perfect lips. Her eyes are kind, playful, with a twinge of…concern? She's not mad, nor repulsed by my hissy fit. I take this as a good sign.

"You are very, very sexy when you're jealous, Edward. And that's a lot more than two things that you're asking, by the way."

_You're a loser, Cullen. Business Class Girl 1 – Cullen 0._

"Am I, now? Why am I not on your corkboards, then?" I feel kind of smug, because she just said I'm sexy, but I want to be there too, I want to erase any and all of the Gucci-clad Marcuses of her existence. I want to be there, in her life, in her past and present, in her future, in her every scrap of meaningless paper, not just in the random notes she scribbles all the time in her overflowing daily planner.

_Because you've snuck more than one peep at those, Cullen…_

"Do you really think you're not in there? I thought I told you to look in the right places…" She whispers, softly, drawing me back closer to her. I take deeper, more relaxed breaths, my hostile thoughts slowly waning now that I'm back in her arms.

"The picture has some sort of sentimental value, that's all there is to it. I took it at the first Glastonbury festival the two losers dragged me to. All because Jasper wanted to see the Charlatans. It was ages ago."

I'm still feeling quite pathetic, and very, very jealous. And a huge, whining baby, but I can't help it. If my wise mum were here, though, she'd probably tell me that there's no use crying over spilt milk. The corkboard, after all, is blatantly marked '_past_'. For one second, my brain clears from all the hostility that's been clouding it, and I repeat Bella's last words in my head. '_Look in the right places…_'

Time to move on to the next corkboard, the one marked '_present_'. To do this, I reluctantly scoot Bella a few inches away from me, as her back is blocking my view. I don't want to let go of her, though, so I move right along with her. Her back is to the wall, of course, but this isn't important. I am the one who needs a front-row seat.

With a fleeting thought, it occurs to me that this skeleton-digging is a bit similar to stalking. Stalking is good. My stalking skills with Business Class Girl are nothing but outstanding. I seriously own that shit.

_And Stalker is your middle name, Cullen._

This corkboard is another colourful mess – every tiny space is filled up. I see dozens of postcards – Milan, Florence, Los Angeles, London. There's a London Tube map, and it's not so recent. At least, the ones they're handing out just now have a different design on the cover. I spot a couple of Oyster cards, too – I guess she doesn't really need them now.

There are several email printouts. Would it be incredibly rude if I looked at the senders? The subject lines are hilarious, though. One says '_Get your shit together and haul your ass over here_'. Another reads '_Come to the dark side. We have palm trees. And Disneyland._' They both sound like something Emmett would write. A couple more start with '_Isabella, sweetie…_' – the faint motherly tone clues me in that they might be from her mother. There are several cooking recipes printouts. It looks like Bella is a fan of Jamie Oliver. Of course, she had to be a good cook, too, on top of everything else.

There's a picture of Bella's motorbike, the infamous Tiger. A bold rider clad in black leather riding gear is astride the sleek, powerful and dangerous contraption. It takes me a minute to realise that it's Bella herself. Damn, she really looks hot riding that thing.

_But you still wish she was riding you instead, Cullen. Admit it._

There are also a lot of printouts from what could look like a contract or a script. These sheets of paper are all dotted here and there with Bella's characteristically neat side notes, scribbled in the regular and elegant handwriting that's become so familiar to me. I inch closer to read them.

This isn't a contract. This isn't a script. I catch names here and there. There's dialogue, and detailed descriptions that go on for paragraphs and paragraphs. This is all hers. This is what she's writing. This is what she was reading to Emmett that day in the gym. Now there's a good line of questioning, but I put this on the back burner while I snoop around some more.

There's an email from Angela, because I recognise the logo in her electronic signature. She's emailing Bella details on an upcoming meeting. I glance at the date – it was the evening of the Christmas party. I file this detail away for later, too.

The last remote corner of the corkboard has my attention riveted in two nano-seconds flat. A picture and a few magazine clippings catch my eye. The picture is a blurry shot from my younger acting days. To this day, I still get haunted by those horrible pictures of me sporting an unlikely hairdo and what Alice calls '_questionable wardrobe choices_'. For some reason, a picture of yours truly from my Cedric days is inconspicuously displayed on Bella's corkboard. Next to it, there's a newspaper clipping announcing some of the roles I might or might not be cast in for the next year. Another clipping hails the latest award I've won. It's from the day Angela gave me an ultimatum and punished me with an assistant. Now _this_ deserves some quality questioning, too.

"B, what's with the shrine over there?" My tone is even too smug. Perhaps I should tone this down, maybe she's embarrassed. Wait, no – this is too much fun. I get to fluster the hell out of her now.

She clears her throat softly and, over her shoulder, she points to the exact spot where the Cedric picture is pinned to the corkboard.

"I'll have you know that I'm a Harry Potter fan," she says, solemnly. I nod, remembering that I already know that from my stalker days.

"And? Looks like someone did her homework here…" I still sound cocky and I'm doing nothing to dispel my smugness.

On an ordinary day, Bella would probably deck me for using this tone with her but now…now the tables have turned, the whole balance of who we are is shifting. The air is charged with a million questions, and even more emotions. I'm just happy to be here with her and that her limits, her walls, are slowly falling to reveal the real Bella to me. I'm learning a lot of things I didn't know. She doesn't seem equally comfortable with this, but I can't quite figure out why. She is quick to recover her cool, though. I guess she doesn't want me to see her unease. My Bella, my cute control-freak.

"And I'll have you know that Hufflepuff is totally lame. Who wants to be in Hufflepuff? Only the guys that get done away with, I'm sure." She's chuckling.

"Come on, B. You've sorted through all sorts of my own crap, I guess you've seen more embarrassing things than a few gossip rag clippings from my past. I'm curious, though, why do you keep them here, when you can have first-hand information?"

She shrugs as if this is no big deal. For her, there's probably a very practical explanation. For me, the fact that she took the time to cut my picture out and keep it is a very, very big deal.

"As you said, I did my homework. Confession time? I hardly had any idea who you were when Angela called me and told me you needed an assistant. Your name did ring a distant bell, but I had no idea what you'd been up to lately. I did some digging, and then I hit the jackpot," she says, a sly, diverted smile on her face.

"What did you do? Googled me? Perez-Hiltoned me?"

She shakes her head, still smiling. "Better. I asked Rosalie. She's a fountain of knowledge, you know? And then more bells did ring, and I remembered the Harry Potter movie. Funny, not even one of my favourite ones…"

I huff and disentangle from her embrace only to cross my arms on my chest. "Rosalie? Oh, right. Investment banker turned fangirl. Ugh."

"You have no idea the sort of stunts they pull. It's scary."

I groan. "Actually, I have. Remember, I'm the one who walks the red carpets."

I'm normally a pretty reclusive person who doesn't hang out with a ton of people, apart from my family and a few friends. Crowds and flashes don't agree with me, nor does the screaming, but I've had to get used to it, over the last year and a half. Bella senses my own discomfort now and grips my hands.

"I didn't mean to make you uneasy, Edward. I didn't know you, then."

Impulsively, I kiss her forehead. "I'm not mad at you, B. It's just the situation. I knew what I was getting into. Well, I didn't – but I'd never have met you, otherwise."

"Says the Emperor of Cheese. You're sure this doesn't irk you? Because I can take it down, if you want."

My eyes narrow to slits while I concoct my counter-proposal. I kiss her slowly as a lazy smile forms on her lips. I feel her smile into our kiss and hold on tighter to her.

"Actually, you could go one better. You could hang your mum's picture here. I would _really_ like that."

She giggles. "Would you? Even if it's photoshopped?" She kisses me this time, no doubt to silence me.

"It's not photoshopped!" I protest, my ego wounded.

"Edward, they're all photoshopped. But you did look pretty hot in that one. Mum did a good job, after all."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Can you believe it, that they know each other? Alice and your mum, I mean."

She chuckles and nods. "Small world, I guess. Seems like everyone we know is connected. I bet this is coming back to bite us in the ass, sooner or later. Alice, my mum, Angela being your agent, Russell and Jasper… Hell, Russell and your Dad!"

A thought hits me and I slap my forehead with my free hand. The other has resumed its favourite activity – running circles on Bella's skin. "And we've never met before? That's just crazy!"

"It is – but think, we don't have to worry about that now, do we?"

"No, we don't. And I'm a lucky bastard, because I'll bet you wouldn't have given me the time of day otherwise."

She scoffs slightly. "You're always berating yourself, I don't like it."

"And you're deflecting. Let's get back to my original questions, please." I say, motioning with my hand for her to continue talking.

"Your original grilling, you mean. Alright, what do you want to know now?"

After one more peck on her lips, I steel myself for my onslaught of questions. First order of business – her manuscript.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a writer, B?" I ask, softly, my forehead flush with hers, my eyes boring into hers. She can't escape me, like this.

She sighs. When she speaks, her voice is down to an hesitating whisper. "I…I wasn't sure…I didn't know… how you would take it. I'm hardly a writer, I'm just dabbling and Ang…well, you know how she is…"

"B, you're rambling. And you're anything but a dabbler, I remember how quickly you turned that lousy script around. The director was climbing the walls he was so excited. He was ready to boot his own screenwriter and hire you instead."

She huffs, clearly uncomfortable with the high praise. "Don't exaggerate, it was just one paragraph. Anyway…One of the reasons I moved to LA…"

"Besides leaving Jasper high and dry?" I cut in.

"Yeah, besides that. Brownie points for remembering that, Boss. You do pay attention whenever you want to."

She's shamefully right. I only pay attention whenever I want. If she's involved, the '_whenever_' easily turns into '_always_'. What can I say? I'm extremely selective.

_Keep telling yourself that, Cullen._

"Anyway. One of the reasons was that I wanted more time to write. Obviously, while working with Jasper that was nearly impossible. Well, now I have a little more time and... I have a manuscript sort of ready. Angela's been sending it out to several publishers, much to my chagrin. Turns out that some of them are actually interested. Go figure."

"Go figure, she says! It's a huge deal, Bella…It's…It could be such a breakthrough for you…and then…"

And then it hits me. Would Bella the world-renowned author still give me the time of day? Would she even still work for me? Would she even still live in LA?

My face must betray my emotions, because she immediately calls me out on it.

"See? This is why I didn't want to tell you, yet. There's nothing final, it might even not work out at all, judging from my latest phone call with Marcus."

"Marcus, again? What's with Marcus and your manuscript?"

"Right. He's a commissioning editor in NY now. Angela sent him my manuscript, he wants to publish it. If he keeps up the haughty behaviour though, he won't even see the back of it."

"Has he been…untoward to you? Has he been…disrespectful?" I urge, hugging her tighter. I sound like a character from a lame Regency novel, but I don't care. I might still rest my case and decide to punch Marcus.

"Are you real, Edward? Sometimes I wonder…" she whispers in my ear. The sound of her voice goes straight below my belt. Damn brain cells.

"Sometimes I wonder what lengths I will go to keep you safe, B… if the loser misbehaves…"

"Jasper and Emmett will deck him before you do, but it won't come to that. He's salivating over my manuscript and he's itching to get his hands on the publishing rights. He's lording our friendship over me to get his wish in everything."

I can't resist a snicker. The loser may have known her for years but he's going down a dangerous path. I've known her for barely two months, but even I am aware that there's no steering Bella where she doesn't want to go.

"Give him a taste of Bossy Bella, he won't know what hit him," I comment, smug again.

"Coming right up. I call the shots this time, not him. Anything else, Edward?"

I notice that she's dropped the usual 'Boss' for my given name. It thrills me every time.

There's one last corkboard to examine. It's full of familiar things – printouts of my latest interviews in the works, carefully edited by Bella's hand, pictures of cover shots for the same interviews, Angela's emails with my schedules. A huge monthly printout of my calendar, marking all the shindigs I have to attend in the coming weeks. Green lines mark Bella's days off against my own working days, marked in red. There are very few red lines in here, and a lot of green ones. It's as clear as day that she could have gone to NY to meet Marcus, if she wanted. I have my answer now, I think.

"B, why didn't you agree to go to NY now?"

She's still sitting on the desk, her legs lazily wrapped around me. She holds me tighter to her as she answers, her gaze unwavering. "And cut back on my time with you, now that Alice has flown you back? Never!"

I feel a blinding smile on my face. She did this to stay with me. I can't control myself anymore and all my other questions are forgotten.

"B, what are all these papers on your desk?" I ask, breathless.

"My manuscript, your schedule…the ordinary crap."

"Then I'm about to kiss you senseless on top of my schedule. Actually, can we squeeze this in every day? Kiss you senseless, daily. Can that be arranged?" My hands are roaming all over her chest. I can feel her shallow breaths mingle with mine.

"I'll see what I can do, I might have an in with your assistant…" she answers, shivering in my arms, her own arms circling my neck.

Feeling bold, I kiss her hungrily and answer in between kisses, "Oh, I think I have an in with her, too…"

Another unexpected thing happens. Still kissing me – and this shit alone is guaranteed to send my dick into a tailspin – she slides off the desk, effectively wrapping her whole body around me. I'm as hard as a rock, and have been throughout our heart-to-heart about corkboards and the meaning of life, but I've managed not to poke her in the ribs…until now.

Now there's no hiding my shameless boner, because she's rubbing herself right onto it. I hiss and hold her tighter still. I might crack one of her ribs if she keeps this up. My Bella is not heavy but I'm breathless and weak in the knees for all the kissing and teasing, and my balance turns out to be shaky, to say the least.

She saves the day, whispering in my ear, "Bed." Her tone is husky, commandeering. I like this version of Bossy Bella infinitely better.

"You sure, B?" She nods, kissing me. "Yes, Edward."

Ugh. She knows. She must know that my name on her lips is my utter and total downfall, every godforsaken time. I walk backwards to the humungous bed. Smugly, I think that there's a solid chance there's been no other guy here before me. I fall back on the bed, bringing her with me. Her hands are roaming all over my chest, under my clothes, until they rest on my cheeks. I am met with the most glorious sight in the world.

Bella is straddling me, clad only in an oversized t-shirt and yoga pants. Her hair is all over the place, her eyes are shining and her face is flushed. I probably gave her stubble burn, since my moping self neglected to shave for a few days. Her hands move purposefully to the hem of my shirt. I realise I'm still fully clothed, down to my jacket.

"You have too many clothes on…" she says, pulling my arms out of my jacket. I comply, because I have no free will left where she is concerned. She discards my hoodie and leaves me there lying on her bed, my undershirt riding up on my chest. Her fingers run promptly to skim the waistline of my jeans, right under my t-shirt and up my abs. Sweet torture, this is what she is dealing to me.

She pulls at the hem of my t-shirt again. "May I?" she asks. I nod, incapable of refusing her anything.

The cold should bother me, but my shiver has nothing to do with it. I should feel exposed, but I don't. She's admiring me and I feel adored, cherished. Her eyes are full of silent awe. Her hands roam all over me, followed by her lips.

"I might just love my brother a little more. I'll never complain again that he behaves like a slave-driver to you. I really, really love these," she says, her voice still husky, as her nose skims my abs and her mouth stops to kiss my nipples. Damn.

"B, you have to stop this. God, please." Obviously, this all but eggs her on. She moves lavishing soft, sensuous kisses along an invisible trail of fire up my chest, up my collarbone and along my neck and jaw. Of their own volition, my hands find purchase on her ass cheeks and my hips respond to her touch, bucking into hers. We both moan, and she collapses down on me.

I take this as a good opportunity to switch places and pin her down to the bed, my hands intertwined in hers. Lazily, softly, I launch myself in my very first, and very private, recurrent appointment that reads '_Kiss Bella Senseless_'. I adore my schedule right now. She responds to each of my motions with abandon. Gone is the controlled, prim-and-proper professional Bella, enter Bella good-girl-gone-bad. I like both versions, and both turn me on immensely, but this wild one is a new favourite of mine.

Of their own volition, my hands work their way up her chest to discard her loose t-shirt. One moment, I curse this offending garment because it hides her heavenly curves from my eyes, and the next I bless it, for exactly the same reason. Her presence on this bed alone is a monumental test to my self-control. Now that she's lying topless underneath me, my breath stops. I need this moment – this first glimpse of her – branded in my memory forever. Before I'm aware that I'm ruining the moment, my under-performing verbal filter abandons me once again.

"God, you're so beautiful, B." She opens her mouth but doesn't say anything. Her eyes are glazed over and I just feel that she's trying to read something into my words. My Business Class Girl can't stop her brain from working and is in danger of over-thinking this. Of over-thinking us.

"Don't, B. Don't doubt me, ever." She nods and this is my cue. Once again, my lips descend on hers, at first slow and adoring, while my errant hands caressing her sides and her breasts. I can't keep track of my breathing. Breathing is over-rated, kissing Bella is not.

Suddenly, Bella manages to flip me back on the bed, but we can't keep still and roll back and forth on our sides. Our kisses grow frantic and lustful, to the point I can't keep track where she ends and I begin. We're intertwined and interwoven in a writhing, breathless knot. Without any notion of time nor space, I gasp, helpless, when I feel Bella palming my dick through my jeans. She'll be the death of me, one of these days.

"God, Bella, please. You have to stop this…Please…"

No use. She goes on. "Or otherwise?" she asks, provocatively.

"I'm this close to fucking you with your big brother and my nosy sister in the house….God, please, oh yes…" We're lying on our sides and I can't help thrusting my hips against her. My dick is a filthy traitor.

"Your point?" she peppers open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, rocking her hips against mine, too. Torture. This should be illegal, but I'm glad it's not, because it feels more than heavenly right now.

I take a deep breath in between kisses and sit up, bringing Bella with me. If I know her, she'll feel rejected. That's the last thing I want her to feel.

"B, please. Look at me, eyes up here." I murmur, caressing her hair.

"Don't know, the view is pretty cool down there, too." I can't believe this. She's commenting on the visual of my nether regions.

"Look at me, my lovely. Please." The endearment just falls naturally from my lips, because it's the absolute truth. She's mine and she's lovely. This finally pries her attention away from the bulge in my pants. Not that her dazed look doesn't make me just a tad smug.

"What did you just call me?" Her voice is an incredulous whisper.

"My lovely. I called you my lovely. Sorry, I don't know what came over me." What if she doesn't like it? What if it's too soon? What if some other asshole called her that?

"No, don't be. No one ever called me that. I love it."

How did she know? "How did you…?"

She kisses my forehead, tenderly. Her eyes look like golden chocolate now. She is glorious. She's mine.

"Question mark, Edward. Were you going to say something?"

I hold her tight and rock her back and forth, kissing along her collarbone and the hollow of her neck, my favourite spot, the source of the essence of Bella.

"That I don't want you to think that I don't want you. Does that even make sense?"

Her eyebrows scrunch up as she asks, "How did you…?"

"You've got your own brand of question mark, my lovely."

"Do I? I suppose I do. Sooo…since you're not fucking me with my brother in the house…"

I wince. The two thoughts combined in the same sentence do give me some scary visuals. After all, Emmett's track record as my own personal cockblocker is of Olympic status.

"Believe me, I do want to do that…but I want to take my time with you, I don't want to sneak away to your room like teenagers. You deserve a lot more than that. Hell, even I deserve more than that. Not to mention that…"

"…that the gang might be on our heels any minute now. Wonder what they're all up to. We've been here for hours."

Right on cue, someone is knocking – well, pounding – on the door.

"Why don't you get out of there, lovebirds?" I hate my sister. I really, really hate her.

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business for a change, Alice?"

Bella swats my arm playfully, but I can tell she's not thrilled by the interruption.

"Because I want to take Bella shopping, that's why!"

"No can do, Alice." Bella and I snap at the same time. We're a great team, my Business Class Girl and I. Alice is not easily convinced, though.

"There's lots of places that I need to take her to…Edward, let go of BeeBee this instant!"

Bella snickers. She's planning Alice's demise. I admire her concentrated stare as she snaps into strategy mode and answer with my own devious smile. This is going to be some wicked fun.

"Alice, it's the other way round, actually." Bella's voice is level and perfectly serious.

"What do you mean, the other way?" Silence. This does not happen often with Alice, except when… Bella winks at me, and counts on her fingers, mouthing the seconds to me "One…two…three…"

Alice's squeal is deafening. We're lucky the door is locked. When her enthusiasm slowly wanes, she resumes her merciless pounding on the door.

"You decent in there? Of course not, what an idiotic question…Well, see you downstairs. I still want to take BeeBee shopping."

Our moment is broken, but inexplicably, Bella is shaking with laughter on my lap. Not such a good idea, considering that the situation below my belt is still dangerously at Def-Con 1 level.

"B, care to explain why you would give away such intimate details to the Queen of Gossip?"

Alice is not really a gossiping old lady, but she makes a point of knowing absolutely everything about me. Until now, it's never bothered me, because she's my little sister, and I know I can talk to her about everything. Somehow, her knowing about Bella and me irks me.

Bella's smile is blinding as her hands cup my face and she plants a playful kiss on my nose. "Deflection technique, Boss. If you can't beat them, join them…"

"Uh?" My clueless brain, weighed down by an impossible haze of lust, can't even begin to process Bella's clever strategies. I give up.

"Tell me one thing. Would she have left, if we'd just kept refusing to leave the room and cave in to her demands?"

_Bollocks, Cullen. How does she know?_

"How in hell did you know that, B?" I reply, extricating myself from Bella to retrieve my clothes. It looks like we'll have to leave the room anyway.

"I talk to her every day, Edward. Believe me, she's not terribly difficult to read. Well, let's go downstairs now and face the Spanish Inquisition. I still have to convince Alice that I'm not going shopping with her…"

_BCG's POV_

I'm still in a bit of daze. It's a good daze. Everything related to Edward is good, wonderful even. I still can't believe it and, somehow, my insecure, overwrought brain wants to chop things down and overanalyse them. Fortunately, Edward is his usual happy-go-lucky self and doesn't allow me this luxury. It's as if he knew that it would be my downfall. How can he know me so well already?

Maybe because we spend hours on end together? Maybe because he is a lot less clueless than he likes to think? All in all, with a snap of our fingers, the switch has been flipped and as our roles are changing and shifting around us, our own confused selves are meshing beautifully through this all.

The fact that Edward is outrageously hot doesn't hurt, either. I can barely keep my hands off him. I can't believe I attacked him in my bedroom. Damn Alice. Cockblocked by his sister. Fair is fair though – seeing as we've been cockblocked by Emmett before.

"I'm suddenly very happy we both have only one sibling each," I can't help commenting while we're headed downstairs.

"How so?" He asks, obviously not following my line of reasoning.

"No more siblings to cockblock us next time," I answer swiftly, before I realise the full import of my words and blush crimson just the second before I have to face Emmett, Jasper and Rosalie. And I forgot Alice.

"Yeah, no one else," he whispers back, gripping my hand tightly in his. "Ready, my lovely?"

I shrug. "As I'll ever be…" Once we cross the threshold of the living room, four heads – two blond, two darker ones – that are previously huddled together on the couch, murmuring frantically to each other, suddenly part like the Red Sea and an uneasy silence falls on the room. Alice is the first to break the pow-wow. Bouncing here and there like a pixie on crack, she finally plants herself in front of Edward and me.

"Ready to go shopping, BeeBee?"

I hear Edward groaning beside me. "Alice, I'm not coming along. I'm no value added there."

Back on the couch, Rosalie is snickering because she knows this is a lost cause. Alice doesn't. "Why, BeeBee? Don't you like going shopping? Don't you like the clothes I pick for you?"

"Alice, I love the clothes you pick for me, but shopping is a necessary evil. If you can choose a cocktail dress for me from another continent, and the dress fits me perfectly, why should I waste time in tagging along?"

"Because it's fun?" Alice asks, with the face I'd have if someone threatened to burn all my books.

"Wrong answer. I'm not coming, Alice. Live with it. I'm going to do a lot of other things while you two get your feet sore and your ankles swollen parading up and down Rodeo Drive."

"Is my brother included?" Alice prods on, with a hint of mischief. I can't help thinking that she's probably caving in and, right now, is just trying to get a rise out of Edward, who looks positively livid.

"Alice! Give it a rest, will you?" Edward is not only livid, he is absolutely shaking with unease.

"Alright, alright, no shopping. Do you need me to pick anything up for you, BeeBee?"

Edward sighs. I turn to look at Alice, raising my eyebrows. "You going to Mr G, Alice?"

"Where else? I need to introduce Rosalie to the staff there. She is a lot more fun with this, BeeBee."

I snort. Of course Rosalie is easily pliable. Shopping is her favourite hobby. "That's why I'm sending her with you, because I would be useless. I have a couple of events that I have to attend, will you please find me something Alice?"

She bounces again towards me, hugging me tight. "Of course I will, BeeBee. You don't have to ask."

Rosalie rises from the couch and joins Alice in the hallway. "Right, BeeBee. I'll see you all later. Can we take the Viper to go downtown?"

"Rose, you're dying to drive it, aren't you?" I ask, tossing her the keys.

"Damn straight, BeeBee! I will give Alice a proper fright…Keep busy, and don't do anything I wouldn't do," she replies, grabbing Alice and heading out the door.

Silence descends once again. Edward grips my hand once again. Jasper is still sitting on the couch, a wad of papers in his hands and his double-end pencil balanced on his left ear. He's pretending to read whatever document is in his hands, and failing miserably. I can tell from a mile away that he's watching over the scene that's about to unfold. He's keeping on the sidelines, ready to intervene if anything goes awry. Emmett tosses the TV remote control on the coffee table and jumps over the couch, landing right in front of Edward.

I gulp, suddenly worried by the fact that I have no clue how my brother is going to react to…this…to Edward and me…

Before I see him, before I can even realise what's happening, Emmett's hand lands on Edward's shoulder with a loud thud. Guys – they solve everything with a pat on the back.

Edward rolls his arm, checking for any permanent damage from Em's formidable blow.

"Good thing you've not dislocated my shoulder, Em. So…thanks?" he asks, tentatively.

"You put that smile on my sister's face?" Em replies, with his usual bluntness.

Edward turns to look at me and smiles, too. Then he faces Emmett again and answers, his tone more confident this time. "I did. You okay with that?"

Emmett's gaze lands on me. My grin doesn't falter. "Yeah, I'm okay with that. Just don't stop. And don't tell me how you did it, there's a bunch of things I don't want to know."

I turn beet red immediately. Of course Emmett had to go and embarrass me. "Emmett! Stop that immediately!"

"And give up the fun, Hot Stuff? No way!" he chortles over his shoulder, walking away from us and, predictably, into the kitchen.

Jasper's head finally rises from his contract. He smiles deviously at me. He's the real gossip who will want details later. Crap. Edward's hand relinquishes mine and he follows Emmett into the kitchen.

"I really wish you'd stop calling B like that," he protests. I follow them too, because this will quickly turn into a very embarrassing conversation.

"Like what?" asks Emmett, playing dumb. Running my finger across my throat, I gesture to Emmett over Edward's shoulder that he'd better drop this conversation. No such luck.

"Hot Stuff, Em. She's your sister, has it ever crossed your mind that it's inappropriate?"

I turn to hug Edward's waist. "Inappropriate is his middle name, Edward. It's okay, I don't mind."

"What if I do? Mind, that is?" he quips.

Edward's gorgeous face contorts in a mild scowl. I've never given much thought to this nickname, because it just has its own stupid history, but from Edward's perspective it must sound weird. I kiss his chest, trying to unwind him a bit.

"It's just a stupid nickname, Edward. Don't think anything of it," I whisper, drawing circles on his back with my hands.

"Yeah, don't think anything of it, Eddie. Don't tell me you don't have a crazy nickname for Energizer?"

I can barely stifle a laugh. Of course Em would come up with a codename for Alice and I must say – it's downright appropriate. Edward snorts, too. Looks like the tense moment has been successfully defused. I feel Edward's arms snaking around my waist as he whispers into my hair. "All right, but I want to know this lame story, right?" I nod into his chest. Emmett snickers again in the background.

Jasper has come traipsing into the kitchen as well. I wonder why we've all re-congregated here all of a sudden, then my eyes land on the clock on the microwave. Dinner time. Guys and their stomachs – their only biological clock.

"The lame story, Edward, is that BeeBee here kept spilling things when she was a child," begins Emmett, his head hidden inside the fridge. "And when she'd occasionally spill soup, or tea, or hot milk…"

I feel my face turning beet red again and burrow it further into Edward's chest. Emmett continues his tale, undeterred. "She'd run to her mother yelling 'Hot Stuff'. So here you have it. All because of her innate grace."

I extricate myself from Edward's grasp to swat Emmett's arm. "What are you doing, Emmett? Leading an archaeological excavation in my fridge?"

"Since when is it yours?" he snaps, emerging from said fridge with four beers balanced in his hands.

"Since you dish out details of my infancy at my expense. Get out of my kitchen, now." Kitchen talk always manages to interest Emmett.

"BeeBee, actually…" it's Jasper's voice cutting in. "Yes, Genius?"

"I was thinking…" he continues, dragging it out while Emmett opens the four beer bottles.

"London Pride?" asks Edward, completely thrown for a loop. "I didn't know you drank English beer, Em."

"I don't, Eddie. Eton does," answers Emmett, pointing to Jasper.

Edward happily clinks his bottle with Jasper's. "Well, I can tell we're going to get along, Jasper."

My phone blares in the distance, the strains of '_Suicide Blonde_' thundering through the hall. I rush to answer it and stop the noise. It's actually just Rosalie telling me that she and Alice won't be back for dinner. Go figure.

When I return to the kitchen, Jasper and Edward are engrossed in a conversation about music and Emmett is making himself a sandwich. Edward's eyes meet mine and a glorious grin appears on his face.

"B, tell me…Do you have customised ringtones for everyone on that thing?" he says, pointing to my mobile. I shrug, unsure of Edward's real intent.

"Well, almost. For anyone who is worth a customised ringtone." This is my standard answer to this kind of question. Emmett and Jasper are fighting to hide their snickering.

"So, let me get this straight. What have you got for these guys here? Let's see if I remember…"

"Mission Impossible. I'm Mission Impossible." Jasper cuts in. "I'm still kind of peeved by that, though, BeeBee."

"Oh come on, Genius. You're flattered. Admit it." Jasper laughs.

"Alright, I am. Better than Troublemaker over there," he quips, nodding his head towards Emmett.

Edward stalks around the kitchen island, purposely walking towards me, until he is right in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders. His gaze is an unwavering, smouldering shade of emerald. "So, to sum it all up. Emmett is a Weezer song, Jasper is '_Mission Impossible_'. We already know that Rosalie is, quite predictably, '_Suicide Blonde_'. Marcus is 'Rebel Rebel'. What am I to you, B? That's what I'd like to know."

My breath shortens and I can't tear my eyes away from Edward's. I can't answer either. He'd probably maim me if he knew what his ringtone is, as of now. What I do not expect, though, is that he is quicker than me by half. My phone is now ringing in my pocket.

Jasper raises an eyebrow. Emmett chokes on his beer. I guess neither of them had ever heard my ringtone for Edward.

"Bollocks, BeeBee? Evenflow? Pearl Jam?" fires away Jasper. Emmett waggles his eyebrows at me. They both know the meaning of this. Edward doesn't, and his face says it all.

"Should I be happy or unhappy of this, B?" His voice is a silk caress. He should not be speaking to me with that voice with my brother and Jasper in a ten-mile radius.

"You should be pretty damn smug, Eddie. Evenflow was her first full score ever on Guitar Hero. Now get your asses in gear, people. I'm hungry."

Edward's smile is the epitome of cocky and smug. I'm still silent. His long index finger traces my collarbone and raises up my chin.

"A full score, my lovely?"

I can only manage to nod. He makes me speechless.

"Have dinner with me, tomorrow? No meddlesome interlopers?"

I nod again. I have lost of faculties of speech. This man messes with my brain functions.

"I can't wait for that full score, my lovely. I really can't. Tomorrow. Our date."

I'm going on a date with Edward fucking Cullen. Tomorrow.

* * *

Song in this chapter: David Bowie, Rebel Rebel: http: / www . youtube . com / watch?v=W4SLXaF-lIc

**PIMP MY FIC CORNER:**

Busymommy, Going Under for the Third Time: yes, yes, a JasperElla fic. But Jasper is a surfer. Nuff Said.

AstonMartinVanquish, Just Three Words: Bella is a vet. Edward is a landscaper. How and when will they meet? Who cares - just picture in your head a sweaty, soil-and-greenery dirty Edward.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Wow, is this really an update? This year? In this decade? In this century? Yeah, I know, shocking. RL has been crazy, but I am (I think) back on track. Next chapter is in the works, so...don't hate me...too much!

The resident beta team is always Eifeltwr, Black Hale and Peeptoe. They rock.

Shout-outs for the week: Thanks to everyone out there for your love and support. Thanks to Cookie for being so amazing. All the girls at TLS, each and every one of you. There is a true dream-team behind that blog. Go check it out, and you won't regret it. Busymommy and AstonMartin, who are the dynamic duo behind MoorWard (which is being continued, as you know).

Status report on the forthcoming (ETA unknown) outtakes of BCG: Outtake for Vicky - BPOV of the third chapter (i.e. the flight when CluelessWard sits right beside her); outtake for Annie - Marcus's POV of the Christmas Party; Gabby's outtake - TBD. Gabby, give me a shout whenever.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 20**

_BCG's POV_

It's two days after Christmas. One day since Edward appeared on my doorstep. Twenty-odd hours since I mauled him in my bedroom. Seventeen-some hours since he asked me out on a date with him.

I am on a jittery high, one side of me is excited as a seventeen-year-old on prom night, whilst a more adult corner of my mind is thinking that this could seriously jeopardise a number of things.

I am in my uncontested kingdom – my kitchen – and I'm beating the shit out of a bowl of pancake batter when a cheeky voice startles me from my musings.

"Torturing pancakes won't make it better, don't you know that, love?"

Rosalie – bless her and her Briticisms, and her being consistently spot-on, whatever she says. I let go of the bowl and the whisk, which clatters to the counter in a very untidy swirl of yellowish goo.

"What did that whisk do to piss you off so much?" Rosalie asks again.

I know her technique, she's making light of the situation until I calm down enough to speak civilly to her, that is, without being tempted to throw objects around my kitchen to vent my frustrations.

"BeeBee, leave that batter alone and talk to me. What's eating at you?"

I turn to face Rosalie. She's sitting at the kitchen island; her blonde curls haphazardly cascading around her face and shoulders, her mouth ungraciously open in a very unclassy yawn. There goes the investment banker shark, all prim and proper, without a hair out of place.

I plop down on another stool beside her, handing her a mug of steaming hot coffee. "I guess I am just overthinking things, Rose."

"What is there to overthink? That you'd be dating one of the hottest, most talented Hollywood stars around? That you'd spend 24/7 with him anyway, because he's your boss? That as soon as this gets out, you'll have hordes of rabid fangirls screaming for your head on a silver platter?"

I nearly choke on my Earl Grey. Nearly.

"Thanks, Rose. This makes me feel way better."

"It's true, though. You know it'll be like this. Better face it head-on." Typical Rose. Grab the bull by its horns, and all that. I grunt in response. I know my elected course of action won't be to her liking. Still, she won't budge me. I think. I hope.

"What's with the Neanderthal speak? I thought I'd only get that from your oaf of a brother…"

"Family trait. We're articulate like that." I joke back, hoping to deflect her attention from the matter at hand.

"BeeBee? Don't tell me you are going to ruin this by overthinking, please? Please tell me this has nothing to do with Asshole Extraordinaire?"

I wince. Of course she would know where my deepest insecurities lie. "No, yes…Partially. Shoot, it's all so complicated, Rose."

"Uncomplicate it for me," she commands, idly nibbling away at a random muffin.

"What if this doesn't work out? What if Edward and I end up hating each other? What if this all gets out to the press? Every single gory detail?"

Rosalie raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow at my slew of questions.

"Are you saying this for your sake or for his?" Her voice is serious, all traces of teasing gone.

"For both. I came here for a fresh start. If this blows up in my face, where will that leave me? If we go public, we'll be watched all the time, every action and every word broken down in search of some scandal that won't even be there. I can't go through that. I can't put Edward through that."

She covers my hands with hers in an affectionate gesture. "BeeBee, he ditched his family at Christmas to fly across an Ocean and a continent for you. I think he's already putting himself through this. Give the guy a chance."

"I want to, Rose, so badly but…"

"But what?" Rose is relentless, and bordering on annoyed now.

"I can't let him jeopardise his career. He'd go screaming this from the rooftops and…I'm not ready for that. I want to protect him…us…for a while longer…"

Rosalie twirls a lock of hair around her fingers. It's her 'deep in thought' gesture. She's considering what I'm saying, evaluating the pros and cons in her head based on a S.W.O.T. analysis, just as this was the next biggest corporate deal she was working on – strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats, all lined up before her eyes. Her world is orderly, or can be reduced to an orderly system. Mine is a universe of endless shades of meaning, of reading between the lines.

"What's your plan, then?"

"Keep this quiet, as long as we can. Edward wasn't all sold to this idea, but…"

"But he knows not to argue with the boss…" Rosalie chuckles. She hops down from the stool and hugs me, a one-armed hug around my shoulders.

"You'd better not screw this up, love. This fangirl will want details, sooner or later…" she quips, waggling her eyebrows, just like Emmett would.

"Oh, no…"

"Oh, yes…" she chuckles again.

"You still leaving tonight?"

"Yes. Em is taking me to the airport. Jazz decided to change his flight, he'll be back next week. I can't fathom what made him do that."

Jasper has been complaining non-stop that he'd have to be back to London in time for some super-important, ultra-confidential meeting that he couldn't postpone.

"I suppose he's found a way around it, then?" I am only testing the waters; I already know the real answer to this question.

"Or the right inducement? Keep an eye on that, will you? I hate to miss out on the gossip."

She finally leaves me alone to go packing up her stuff and I know there's one phone call that I cannot postpone. I grab my blackberry and call Edward first.

"Good morning, my lovely." His voice wraps around me like silk and I'm a goner in two nanoseconds flat.

"Good morning, Edward." I sigh, hopeless.

"Say that again, my lovely?" he asks, a playful undercurrent to his voice.

"Good morning?" I reply, tentatively. At the other end, Edward chuckles softly.

"No, my lovely. The other bit, please?" He wants me to work for it. Sneaky little thing.

"Edward…" I cave in, a tad exasperated that my boss wants me to parrot out things to him for no apparent reason.

"That's better. I love hearing you say my name. But don't tell Emmett I said that." He adds, hastily.

My turn to chuckle. "Why?"

He groans. "He'd tease the ever-loving shite out of me, that's why."

That figures. Just like Emmett to annoy Edward on a trifle such as this and wilfully omit that he sends flowers to Rosalie in London every week.

"So, is this a social or a business call, lovely?"

"Business, actually. Or social. Hell, I don't know. Both, I guess?"

My brain feels like it's been scrambled. Edward is silent, no doubt waiting for my wits to re-arrange themselves.

"Edward, we need to call Angela. You've not forgotten, have you?"

"Umm, no. Do we really need to do that today?" he suddenly sounds like a whiny kid.

"Yes, Boss. No date if we don't come clean with Ang first."

He groans again. "This is mean. You are mean. Blackmailing should be beneath you."

"I live with Emmett. Nothing is beneath me if there's a remotely legal or illegal subterfuge to get away with it."

"All right, all right. Let's rip it off, Band-Aid style," he huffs, annoyed, but now giving in to my request.

"OK. I'll call her right away," I say hastily, but he stops me before I can disconnect the call.

"Hold your horses, B. I'm coming over, wait for me."

"Why?"

"She asks me why. B, I'm not letting Ang rip you a new one cause of me and leave you high and dry through it. And I don't care if you can do this on your own. Hell, you'd probably be better off without me on this one, but I'm going to be there, and that's final."

I'm only mildly puzzled, after all. Edward is a gentleman – of course he'd want to be there.

"When did you start being so logical and level-headed?" I tease him.

"Don't know, since this incredibly smart, insanely hot girl agreed to go on a date with me?"

"Right, back to your adorable, goofy self. I'll wait for you so we can call Ang together, ok?"

"Sure thing. See you in ten."

And exactly ten minutes later, right on the dot, Edward appears on my doorstep, looking like he's just left yet another GQ photo shoot, in all his scruffy, rumpled glory. Even his beanie is slumped sideways and he's balancing his phone, his sunglasses (in December?), a book, a script and a highlighter, all in his left hand.

I chuckle at his antics. "How many fingers do you think you have on that hand? I'm pretty sure you can't do that with a normal, five-fingered human hand."

He waggles his eyebrows. "Wouldn't you like to know, lovely?" He replies, planting a chaste kiss on my cheek as he slides past me and into the hallway.

My very flustered self manages to shut the door and follow him into the kitchen, where he dumps all his stuff unceremoniously on the counter.

"Where's the rest of the gang?" he asks, removing his beanie to reveal his mop of unruly, gloriously soft bronze locks.

Now that I know what it feels like to tread my fingers through it, I'm an addict, and the addict wants her fix right now. I step closer to him and do just that. I put my arms around him and then play with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He's not filming at the moment and he's letting it grow positively wild. I make a mental note to check his upcoming contracts for any punitive stipulations on grooming habits. Nasty producers don't get to mess with my Edward's hair.

While I mentally go all nazi on his haircut and he's none the wiser about it, he steals a few hot kisses along my jaw and collarbone. I sigh, feeling a now familiar shiver down my spine.

"Good morning again, I guess?"

How my brain can still form coherent speech is completely beyond me.

"The gang, B? Where are they?" My face must display a sign that reads 'Brains just scrambled courtesy of Edward Cullen'.

"If I'm going to have my wicked way with you on your kitchen counter, I want to know if we'll be bloody interrupted or not," he goes on, still punctuating his words with a trail of kisses. Somehow, I recover my wits and swat away Edward's hands that have, by now, travelled down south to cup my ass.

"Mean, you are so mean to me," he chuckles.

"You can fire me, if I'm so mean." Brains, welcome back. I've missed you these last ten minutes.

"Not a chance. The gang?"

"Rosalie is upstairs, packing up. Jazz has been glued to his blackberry, logged into a conference call, since 6am this morning. Emmett – dunno, running on the beach?"

"So, we're alone?" he concludes, a mischievous glint in his jade eyes.

"Technically, yes. But we have work to do."

He groans. "Mean, like I said."

I can't help but chuckle back at his goofy antics. He has these funny, childish facial expressions and he doesn't even realise how cute he looks. The guy must really be clueless.

Almost reluctantly, he releases me and sits on a stool, then gathers me back close to him, putting an arm around my waist.

"Want to have breakfast first, Boss?" I ask, because 'Procrastinate' is my middle name, as of now. Edward shakes his head, rummaging through the pile he's just chucked on the counter to fish out his blackberry.

"No, lovely, I don't want to choke on my coffee or worse while Ang gives me the third degree. You sure we can't get Jasper to ditch his conference thingy? Might be handy to have a lawyer around…"

Then it hits me. Edward might be as nervous as I am, if not worse. This puts us on a more even footing, I guess. "Edward, Jasper is a corporate lawyer, he's never seen anything remotely related to intellectual property since Oxford. He could hardly help out on this."

Edward huffs. "I'll overlook the fact that you're talking Arabic to me, but can't he even fake? Isn't he supposed to be a supportive friend?"

My turn to chuckle, again. "The same supportive friend who first bailed on New Year's Eve with us, when I asked him to stay, because 'I can't postpone the sodding meeting in London' and now, for reasons unknown, he's rescheduled both his meeting and his flight? Liar, liar…pants on fire…"

"Has he? Bollocks, so that's why…" An uneasy frown of understanding mars Edward's face.

"Why what?"

"Alice has rescheduled her flight to Milan, too…"

I smirk. My instincts were spot on. There's something brewing between my former boss / bestie and Edward's sister, and it's real enough to send Edward into big brother mode.

"So, are we calling Ang or what?" I finally ask to get him out of his sudden funk.

"Right. Ang. Let's do this, B." He grabs his blackberry and hits Ang's speed-dial. I guess Ang will wonder what this is all about.

"Edward, high time you checked in with me. Landed almost thirty hours without a word. I'm hurt."

Or not. Why do I make the mistake of underestimating Angela and her superpowers? Nothing escapes the Nazi agent.

"Ang, about that. Sorry, my return was…unexpected. Hurried. Well, whatever. I was planning to fly under the radar. Lie low. That kind of thing." Edward says, sheepishly. Ang really intimidates him.

"Under whose radar, Edward? The paps'? Your assistant's? Mine? Because you've barely passed muster this time around." Her voice is stern. This is Ang's 'don't fuck with me' attitude. Edward pales.

"Please tell me the press doesn't know." He must be worried that his cover for this impromptu holiday has been blown. That would mean no peace whatsoever for him.

"No, not this time. Thank fuck your sister has a bunch of finely-tuned brain cells in that fashionista head of hers." Angela's voice is still stern, but the hint of sarcasm is a clear indication that she's now taking the mickey out of Edward. Poor guy. I think I know what Angela means, though, so I pop in to try and put Edward out of his misery.

"Ang, hi there. You're on speaker."

"Hi, B. I hope you're more eloquent than your so-called Boss this morning. What is the pow-wow for?"

Edward clears his throat, and motions for me to let him speak first. "Ang, there's something I want to tell you, but it needs to remain absolutely confidential."

Silence.

"Are you there?"

More silence.

"Edward, I'm only on my first cup of coffee, and I am in no mood for childish antics. If you've pulled a Hugh (Grant) on me, you'd better tell me right away."

Edward opens and closes his mouth repeatedly. Dumbfounded and confused is an understatement. He is terrified. He truly needs the cavalry this time.

"Ang, the reason we're calling you together is…" I begin, only to stop for a second when I feel Edward's hand squeezing mine, a grateful smile on his face. Angela, who has a talent for butting in edgewise into any conversation, interrupts me.

"B, I need something that makes some damn sense. What's up, guys?"

Edward huffs, annoyed and more nervous than ever. I hope Ang can't hear him.

"I like Bella, ok? There, I told you. So what, now?"

I hear a strangled noise from the crackberry on the counter. I hope Edward's clumsy revelation hasn't resulted in Angela's premature demise. When a very unladylike snort filters through, I know Ang is safe and sound.

"You _like_ Bella, Edward? What is this, kindergarten?"

Edward groans. "You really take delight in torturing people. You sure you weren't with the KGB or Mossad in another life?"

Edward is not that much off the mark. Angela's dad was an NCIS officer, but I'm not going to share that intel. Not now, anyway.

"Actually, I was. What is it that you're trying to say, Edward?"

"Bella and I are dating. There, you have it. Not that it's any of your sodding business, Ang."

Edward is losing his shit. Scratch that, he's already lost it.

"Ang, what we want to say is…" I start again, hoping to drive a point home, any point home this time.

"We?"

"Angela, please. That's enough." I snap, because her snarky attitude grows more unnerving by the minute.

"Alright. Get on with it. I'll behave."

Next to me, his fidgety hand still entwined in mine, Edward exhales a relieved sigh.

"Would that be a conflict, in your opinion? I can step down if it is…" I go on, but Edward cuts me off right away.

"You're not stepping down, B. I need you."

"But…"

"The rest we can iron out later, like the silly fact that you want us to fly under the radar."

Edward's last words finally catch Ang's interest. She clears her throat and retorts, "Actually, Edward. Bella has a point. I have no issue with you two dating. I can't dictate your personal life in any way, as long as your actions are not detrimental to your commitments and your career."

"I don't see the problem, then. I'm not saying I want to go on Oprah's, jump on her couch and yell Bella's name on national broadcast, but…"

"You would be exposing Bella to a fuckton of unnecessary risks if you flaunted your relationship status with the media."

Silence. A pin could drop at the other end of Angela's mansion and we'd hear it through the phone in Venice Beach.

More silence. Edward clears his throat, but his voice still comes out as a sort of shaky murmur.

"Risks, for Bella? Ang, are you serious?"

With her next words, Angela's tone is nothing but business-like.

"Edward, the two of you are in the public eye enough as it is. Think about lunch at Morton's a while ago."

Oh no – Ang didn't just go there. She reminded Edward of that debacle and, implicitly, of my consequent meltdown.

"So you're saying that the paps would hound her around, if they knew we were dating?" Edward is truly concerned.

"Yes, Edward, even more than they normally would. The press will see her with you a lot anyway, but after a while they'll stop noticing Bella and write her off as a constant presence if the believe there are no juicy details to be uncovered there. Think about it. You can always announce it with a fanfare in a month or two, or whenever you feel the time is right."

"No! No fanfare!" I blurt out before I can think twice. Edward gathers me close and kisses my temple.

"No fanfare, my lovely. Anything you want, or don't want. Fine with me." His voice is calmer, smouldering, and kindles embers of lust underneath my skin.

"Right, lovebirds. Got a game plan, now you've come clean with the coach?"

"I think we should lie low until Edward is officially back in town."

"Sounds good to me. B, can you please be in charge of logistics and such for this undercover mission? Seems to me Mr Cullen could lose his marbles any time," she comments, an unmistakable smile in her voice.

"Yes, yes, make fun of me. I'm still here, you know."

"That's why I'm making fun of you."

Edward's answer is an unintelligible grunt. He spends too much time with Emmett.

"And Edward?"

"Yes, Ang?"

"Try not to mess this up, or I'll truly kick your skinny British ass this time."

Angela disconnects the call without saying goodbye. Edward stares at his blackberry, a disbelieving expression on his face.

"Well, that wasn't quite how…" he begins.

"Ang sometimes has…a knack for tackling tricky situations."

"I don't want to talk about Angela now." His voice is all silk and honey, his hands run tantalising patterns through my hair. "I don't want to talk at all."

_Edward_

"I don't want to talk at all."

These are the last coherent words I manage before I throw all rationality out the window and make good on my earlier promise. I want to have my wicked way with B, and I want to take full advantage of the empty house. I don't give a shite that, for the third time in a row, we appear to have a thing for kitchens. With B, everywhere goes.

"You sound like a horny teenager, Boss." Bella sighs and shivers in my arms, and that's my cue. Most of the time I can't really fathom what goes on in her head, but I think I'm learning to read her reactions to me like a map. She wraps her arms around my neck and, when her fingers begin playing with my hair, I'm a goner. Hell, I was a goner the minute she opened the door and smiled at me ten minutes ago. I'm the one to sigh, now that my nose is skimming hers and her chocolate eyes are staring at me, a thousand emotions running through them.

Suddenly, I get hooked on this phenomenal look she's giving me, and I never want it to fade away from her face, because it gets me higher than any drug ever could. It exudes adoration and pride, and it makes me feel like more than a man. It makes me feel like I can conquer the world if it means she'll be here tomorrow, looking at me like this.

I throw the momentous force of this realisation into every kiss and every touch, until I am, too, wrapped around her and I never want to let go. Time passes, meaningless minutes, but silence is no hindrance to us, as I continue my reverent exploration, where my hands and fingers do all the talking. I never believed it could be possible to convey feelings as strong as these with simple kisses.

It occurs to me that we've only just crossed this 'line' not a day ago. Still, it feels natural, it feels homey to be with her like this, and the unrestrained flood of feelings has probably been kept at bay too long in any case.

Another errant thought hits me. I started off wanting to make out wildly with her, and now I find myself worshiping at her feet. An oddity? Maybe, but all I feel is elation. Our foreheads still touching, I smile into the kiss.

"What is the smile for?" She whispers, her lips brushing against mine with every syllable.

"I have a date to plan. And I want it to be perfect." One more peck on her lips, as I reluctantly disentangle myself from her grasp. "Off with you, woman. I have work to do."

She flashes a devious grin my way. "Get out of my kitchen, then!"

I walk away, headed downstairs into the gym, winking at her over my shoulder. I need Emmett and Jasper, and screw the conference whatever thingy.

_Wink, Cullen? Are you regressing into teenage wasteland?_

* * *

**Public service announcements:**

TLS is hosting a Lemons & Lyrics O/S contest. Yours truly is one of the judges. Assuming this won't scare you away, go check it out and, if the music plot bunny bites you, enter the contest!

_http: / tehlemonadestand (dot) blogspot (dot) com/ 2011 /05 / tls-presents-lyrics-lemons-os-contest (dot) html_

If you haven't already, please check out my other story "Everything I Knew Was Wrong", aka Moorward. Entirely different time and place - Cornwall, 1840. All EPOV. This story will very soon have an outtake, that I donated earlier this year to Fandom Fights the Floods. The outtake is BPOV of some events that are NOT related in the main story and might shed some light on things MoorWard doesn't know. MoorElla should come to an inbox near you later this week. So...brace yourself!

Until next time...CluelessWard is planning a date!_  
_


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Yes, an update. THE update.

The dream-team of Eifeltwr and Peeptoe welcomes another red pen - Unimaginative Olena. They ALL rock.

This is dedicated to the Wooden Chicks. They know who they are.

Big shout out to the PLF ladies who listen to all my venting and bitching.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 21**

_Edward_

With that wink, my sudden confidence wanes and panic sets in.

I can act half-naked on an open set almost without batting an eyelid, with throngs of people ogling my ass, from stage hands and assistant directors, to riggers, electricians and seamstresses, but I can't come up with a game plan for the perfect first date with my new girlfriend.

_What's gotten into you, Cullen? And are you sure she _is_ your girlfriend, anyway?_

Well…she _is_ my girl. I get to kiss her, hold her, touch her, talk to her. I want to do a lot more than that, but I can't tell anyone. There is a catch, there had to be a catch somewhere. Notoriety always comes back to bite you in the ass. What's the point of being famous and filthy rich if you can't do a bloody thing?

Enough with my sob story. I have a date to plan, but I know next to nothing about what will impress Bella, and the only thing I know is that I _want_ to impress her. I want to impress her so much that she will be speechless.

I can't ask Alice. I won't ask Alice – she would go overboard and make this date something akin to a Royal Wedding. Considering how the majority of those things end, I don't want any similarity marring my first date with Bella.

I need a guy's advice, from someone who knows her. I cringe because I know that I will never, ever live this down, but I am a man on a mission and I won't stop till I get what I want.

Emmett. Jasper. They both know her. They will help.

I descend the stairs to the gym, in hopes that Emmett has returned from his beach run. The blaring rap music, the grunts and the stench of sweat all tell me that he has. One down, one to go; I still need to get the corporate or whatever lawyer as well, but I don't have the gall to hunt him down myself. I'll get Em to do that.

"Look what the cat dragged in…"

"I need a favour. Or twenty."

He stands up from the bench, dropping a 60-pound weight like a feather, wiping sweat from his forehead with his discarded t-shirt.

"Good morning to you too, Wonder Boy. You look way more relaxed this morning."

I choose, against my instincts, to be polite and I don't respond to this. It might open a whole new can of worms with Bella's name on it.

"Yes, well, Em. Good morning."

He smirks, waggling his eyebrows. "Uhh, touchy, touchy. I take that back. So tense. Eddie, didn't you get any?"

I find a precarious perch on one of the nearby training machines, all the while giving Emmett a pointed stink eye.

"What crawled up your ass, Eddie? Smelling something bad?"

"Apart from your sweaty carcass? Do I have to spell it out, Em? Draw a picture for you?"

His eyebrows, possibly his most expressive feature, curl up in a very, very interrogative frown. I huff, shaking my head in disbelief. He doesn't realise. He doesn't think.

"Emmett, are you trying to engage me in locker room talk?"

"Is it working?" He's back to his weight lifting.

"It shouldn't, Em. This is all kinds of wrong. This is the Academy Awards of awkwardness."

"But I'm your personal trainer. We're in a gym. You've got a new girlfriend, for fuck's sake. I wanna know!"

If he stomps his foot, I'm having his DNA checked, because there is a distinct possibility that he might be related to Alice. Oops – and to me? Oh, no way.

"Emmett! That's your sodding sister I'm dating! Or trying to date, I suppose. You still bloody want to know?"

He drops his towel on the floor with a loud thud. Something must have clicked in his brain.

"Yeah, right. BeeBee. If you touch her with just one of your filthy English fingers, I'll cut your balls off."

I can't but chuckle under my breath. This bloke is a riot.

"Em, too late. But your concerns do you credit." His eyes narrowed to slits, he sizes me up.

"You being respectful to her? Is she keeping you on your toes?"

"Is the sky blue?"

He grunts, an unintelligible sound I've only heard from him. It's an all-purpose answer, whenever words fail him. "What was the favour, Eddie?

"I need pointers. Hints. Suggestions."

"What for?" he asks, moving to the treadmill right beside me.

"I'm taking B on a date tomorrow night. I just…where the hell can I take her?"

"Grab me a bottle of water from over there, please? I need to give this some serious thought."

Handing him the requested bottle, I try not to dwell on the fact that Emmett's meditation drink is mineral water.

"I'd love to take her to her favourite restaurant…"

Emmett interrupts before I can finish. "Easy, that's Gladstone's."

"Where is that?"

"Malibu. Best clam chowder on the West Coast, lobsters flown in from Maine daily. BeeBee adores it."

I ponder this for a second. There is no way I can pull off a dinner in Malibu with the whole 'fly under the radar' scheme.

"What's the matter, Eddie? It's perfect."

"Not so perfect, if you want to avoid the press at all costs."

"So, no public hangouts, then?"

"Pretty much, Em. Sucks to be me, I know."

Emmett chugs down a good half of his bottle and then nods to me, in a reflexive, pensive gesture.

"Well, no. Not all the time. Dammit, Gladstone's would really be perfect."

The door opens, revealing Jasper's lanky frame. He looks haggard. I guess that's what you get for being in a conference call for six hours straight.

"Gladstone's? Who mentioned the nectar of the Gods?"

"Good morning to you, Perry Mason."

"Shut up, Tom Brady." Jasper quips, dodging a flying sweaty towel courtesy of Emmett, who may or may not have a pointed dislike for that particular athlete. Jasper turns to me, plopping down on the other side of the same daunting machine I've been perched on for the last ten minutes.

"Did I overhear something about a date? I mean, if I'm not intruding or anything."

This is the first real opportunity I have to get to know him. He's been a huge part of Bella's life for so many years, he still is. If I had to make a survey of the potential stumbling blocks I might come across in my path towards Bella, I'd have to say that the major ones are Emmett and Jasper. Emmett, though, is a non-issue. If he meant to be one, he wouldn't have manipulated Bella so that we'd all become neighbours. Jasper could be a tougher nut to crack – college mates, later best mates; last, but not least, boss and assistant. In Jasper's eyes, I might well be a usurper; after all, Bella left him high and dry and ended up in LA, working for me. Yet, he is the one polite enough to ask if he is intruding.

"Jasper, don't even think about it. And yes, you did overhear correctly. Though Emmett is not helping. I'm stuck, and time is running out. I'm two steps away from collapsing into panic mode."

Jasper stretches his legs and arms fluidly from his perch on the bench. "Let's take this from a practical angle. What do you want to do for this date?"

My uneasy sigh conveys my immense discomfort. I am at a loss. "I want to impress Bella, I want to do something that she will like, that shows I've put some effort into this, but…"

"Ah, there we are, with terms and conditions." Cue the lawyer-speak. B makes it sound so hot, with Jasper it just turns to gibberish in my brain. "What are the terms and conditions, Edward?"

I must look positively demented at this minute. "What are the do's and don'ts?" There, that's easier. Good thing B takes care of all my legal crap, at least she can understand it.

"As far as the press knows, I am not in LA at the moment; I'm still with my family in London. Plus, Bella and I… must fly under the radar. So, no public places."

"Find a secluded location, then sort out the catering. If Mohamed will not come to Gladstone's, then Gladstone's must be brought to Mohamed." He makes it sound all so easy. He's not the one forced to sneak around.

I throw a sideways glance at Emmett, who looks downright puzzled. I have an inkling that my expression must mirror his to a 't', minus the dimples and sweaty forehead. Jasper resumes a more human posture and scoffs, evidently annoyed with our slow intellect.

"What I mean is, if you can pick a 'safe' location, Gladstone's grub may not be a problem."

Exasperation. That's what I'm feeling. Why can't I take my girl to the movies like any other guy? Oh, wait. I know why. I'm the one in the movies. Safe location? Am I undercover? In the witness protection programme?

"Jasper, for me, the only safe location in this city is just about within the walls of my house. I can't very well ask Bella to come over because I've run out of sugar…"

Jasper looks at me as if I've just discovered the cure for cancer. "The house! Of course!"

"Come on, how lame would that be? And what about my sister? It's not as if I can kick her out, right?"

Emmett frowns, but looks more concentrated than anything else; he must be pondering something very hard and his underused brain cells are getting a rare workout.

"Well, I don't think it would be so lame, Edward. It would be thoughtful, secluded, and romantic even. You live in Kate and Garrett's house, right?"

How does he know Kate and Garrett?

_Cullen, he's Bella's bestie. Of course he knows her neighbours._

I nod, trying to follow Jasper's train of thought. He continues. "So it has a backyard deck exactly like this one, right?"

Emmett nods along with me. We look like life-size replicas of the Muppets, our expressions just as ridiculous. I'm trying to keep up with Jasper and the only conclusion is…

"You mean, I should take her…in to dinner, and not out. You mean, next door."

Jasper flashes me a pearly white smile. "And here I thought you were just a pretty face. You did figure that out."

Jasper's idea has some merits. Bella and I would be away from prying eyes, with uninterrupted time on our hands. The idea has lots of merits – and one downside: my sister.

"I'll be happy to take care of Alice. If you don't mind, of course." Sneaky – he's doing me a favour, so there's not a snowball chance in hell I'm going to flip my big brother switch against him. I'd be cockblocking myself.

"You want to go out with Alice?" I retort, my expression half-astonished and half-irritated. Astonished, because Bella was right, and Jasper has a thing for my little sister. Irritated, because I was the only slow-witted moron who didn't see that coming.

He merely nods, with a satisfied smile. "But she's my sister!" I protest. Both Emmett and Jasper break out in loud guffaws.

"Dude, that's rich, coming from you!" Leave it to Emmett to throw my attitude back in my face. "I mean, Eddie, I've been dating Genius's sister for years, we're helping you date my sister…and you're trying to split hairs about Jazz going out with your sister? Dude!"

I give up and laugh along with them. Jasper reiterates his proposal. "So, that's settled. I'll have dinner with Alice."

Sneaky indeed – but then again, he's the corporate lawyer. "And I'll bring her back here for the night." Ugh. I didn't want to know that but, again, I don't have a choice if I want my date with Bella. Hook, line and sinker. It makes sense he's a rainmaker already at his age, according to Bella – he's no doubt a ruthless negotiator. He drives a hard bargain, but how can I refuse, when there's so much at stake?

"What about Gladstone's? They don't deliver, and Eddie can only nuke so much before BeeBee runs for the hills." Emmett is back, with a good point, too.

"He's Edward Cullen, of course they'll deliver." Jasper deadpans, his voice indicating that he's well used to getting his way in everything. Frantic phone calls aboard an airplane flash through my mind, with Bella's patient voice staving off his unreasonable demands. Do I behave like that with her, too?

"Yeah, because that'll go over well with the whole secrecy shebang the kids are going by." Emmett's snarky reply gets me thinking. How to tackle this, and keep myself incognito? If there's one person that can nail this, Bella excepted, it's Angela.

"OK, guys. I've got this. They will deliver for Edward Cullen, but my whereabouts will remain confidential. I need to call Ang. God, how I hate to name-drop, but the ends justify the means."

Emmett's hand slaps me not so delicately on the shoulder. "Way to go, Eddie. Say hi to Ang for me. And…Eddie…you might want to…you know, surprise BeeBee."

I groan. Everyone knows that B abhors surprises. She hates being blindsided. Jasper and I, in perfect unison, shout a resounding "NO!" and exchange a knowing glance at each other. We both snicker, and then can't stop laughing.

When we are back to our own coherent selves, Jasper nods at me in appreciation and adds, "It looks like you know her well. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, we're all impressed that Eddie is not a douchebag. Let him go, he's got shit to do before tomorrow night. And I'll let myself go, I need to drive your sister to the airport. On second thoughts, get the fuck out of here too, Jazz, and bring Alice with you – for the next…48 hours good for you, Eddie?"

I nod, again. It seems I have lost all capacity for verbal communication. And my big brother instincts, too.

_Cullen, you never had a way with words, let's face it._

Emmett claps his hands, forcing me out of my wordless funk.

"Pow-wow dismissed, losers. Eddie's got a date to plan."

Jasper flashes us both another signature grin and answers, "So do I, Em, so do I."

§§§ BCG §§§

The following night, I'm alone in my house for the first time since I took up residence here. There is no housekeeper, no movers, no Angela, no Bella and most of all, no Alice trying to beautify me.

I refused to follow her advice to get dressed to the nines for this evening with B. It just doesn't make sense. We're having dinner at my house, not walking down a red carpet. Besides, it's not like Bella will care about what I'm wearing, right?

_Correct, Cullen. Because you don't plan on wearing these clothes much longer, anyway._

Silence. I'm not used to it. Cameras flashing, voices shouting my name left, right and centre, the background noises of traffic and airports – these are the sounds I'm normally drowned in.

The house is ready. Table for two is laid out on the deck, candles scattered here and there – my only cheesy concession to Alice's impromptu event planning, and only because I think Bella will like them.

Food is in the oven – Gladstone's grub was not that hard to obtain, after all. Turns out Ang knows the owner and, by pulling a few strings, she managed to get them to deliver their best dishes. She even showed up to help me pre-heat them. She claims she only did it because she didn't want me to get third-degree burns or destroy the house, yet I know better. She doesn't want me to screw up with Bella, but she'll never own up to it.

Bella doesn't know that this is where we're meeting. The secrecy thing worked in my favour – I managed to convince her that I couldn't very well drive her myself and that it made more sense if Tyler picked her up with the limo, driving her to the super-secret venue of our meeting. Tyler will pick her up – or rather, should have picked her up five minutes ago – drive around the block a couple of times, and then take her back here.

My eyes jump from one corner to another, in haphazard order, while I'm trying to collect myself so I don't look like a total wreck the moment Bella makes her appearance. I pace up and down the kitchen, my nerves taking a toll on me with every passing minute. I rake my hands through my hair, once again thankful that I stood up for my sorry arse and didn't allow Alice to put that shiny, sticky shit into it. My gaze alternates between the wall clock, my watch, the oven timer and the door.

T minus two minutes.

The doorbell rings.

I am a nervous wreck.

_Get your act together, Cullen. It's your Business Class Girl, not the Spanish Inquisition._

My Business Class Girl. My Bella. She is here.

Finally.

I rush to the door, forgetting everything else, even my nerves. I swing it open, my gestures fluid in spite of myself. Bella stands on the other side, a shy, surprised smile on her face. At least she seems not to hate me for my ruse to get her here.

"You know I hate surprises," she quips, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Yes, because I am that much of a useless moron right now.

I wave her in, still speechless, and risk a glance in her direction. She takes my breath away. Before I can drink in every particular of her appearance – because I want this moment etched in my memory for years to come – she turns to me.

"But I think I'll love this one," she adds, her voice an awed whisper.

She walks toward the kitchen, and I'm at her side without even realising my feet are moving. She twirls around, throwing an appreciative glance to the deck windows, and her gaze falls back on me.

"You did all this by yourself?" She isn't questioning my abilities, as her words might suggest. She's surprised; or at least this is what I gather from the hint of humour in her voice.

"I had…help, I must admit. But you still like it, don't you?" Even I can feel the doubt in my words and in my voice.

Her smile is the best answer and the best reward I could hope for. "Of course I do. I love it, Edward. No one has ever…done something so…thoughtful for me."

She averts her eyes, no doubt to hide her blush. I wish she wouldn't do it. I take a moment to roam my eyes over her figure, trying to ease my lingering nerves. She looks stunning. She's wearing a cream-coloured oversized sweater that looks soft and decadent, and hugs all of her curves to perfection. Shouldn't she be wearing trousers or something, with that? Her legs are bare – it's the end of December, and for the life of me, I can't fathom how in heck she's not freezing – except for her boots.

_Cullen, this is LA. Of course she's not freezing._

"Don't give yourself a brain haemorrhage, Edward. Spit it out."

"B, don't take this the wrong way, but…" I am a nervous, jealous wreck who's about to badmouth his girlfriend's fashion choices on the night of his first – and last? – date.

I hear a noise eerily similar to a snort, but it can't be Bella, can it? Apparently, it is. Bella just snorted.

"It's a cashmere sweater dress, Edward, and I emphasise the word _dress_, as in…you don't need pants with this. Got it, Boss?"

She reads my mind. This is the only plausible explanation. I shake my head, trying to reboot my system, in the faint hope that I'll avoid further brain farts during the evening.

"You _are_ cute when you're flustered. And hot as hell when you're jealous." I raise my eyes to find her face only inches from mine.

"Am not." Childish, but at least it's not another social _faux pas_.

"You are. In case you're wondering, your sister got to me. You owe me." Alice took her frustrated beautification attempts out on Bella. Her attire is the direct result of her sacrifice. Thank you, Alice.

_Note to self: Cullen, get a humungous birthday gift for your sister._

"You look…you look breath-taking. I don't have words. I just…"

_Cullen, stop babbling like an idiot. Do something._

For a fleeting second, my nerves evaporate when her eyes bore into mine. She looks serene and determined at the same time. I step closer to her, one of my hands encircling her waist, the other landing on her cheek, my fingers tracing her features, down to her luscious lips. I can't help myself any longer, so I just kiss her. I feel her smile into the kiss, that I keep brief and chaste because I don't want to ravish her before dinner.

"And the evening just turned perfect."

"Will you have dinner with me now, my lovely?" I whisper, still holding her close to me.

The oven timer decides to beep. Our lobsters are ready. What can I say? I have a talent for timing.

"I would be delighted, Edward. Lead the way?"

She follows me out to the deck, where she finally sees the whole scenario. Late December in LA equals early May in London, and eating outside on the deck doesn't seem so outlandish, though it did take some convincing from Jasper. It was his idea. It's a calm, starry night with hardly any clouds in the sky. I couldn't have hoped for a better night, not even if I'd had it made to order. The candles are just for show, but they certainly add to the charm. Thank you, Alice – twice over.

I take out her chair, because my mum raised me to be a gentleman, and leave her briefly to retrieve our food from the kitchen. When I serve the plates, her eyes go wide as saucers.

"Is this? But it can't… How did you?"

Gladstone's lobsters can't be mistaken, or so Em tells me. He also guaranteed that B would know them even with a blindfold on.

_Blindfold? This has possibilities, Cullen…_

My smile must be smug. I've pulled out all the stops – all right, I did have help, but still... – and she's clearly impressed. So far, so good.

"Gladstone's doesn't deliver, Boss. Spill it." Her eyes are narrowed to suspicious slits, but they are still bright and playful. She's smiling, her hands itching to dig in and feast on her beloved lobster.

"For Edward Cullen, it does. Deliver, that is."

"I _might_ use that trick in the future, you know."

I shrug. As long as it makes her happy, I'm game. I'd dismantle the moon and hang it on her bedroom ceiling if she asked me.

"If that smile is my reward, you can do that as often as you like. I won't ever complain about seeing you this happy."

"Thank you, Edward." Her voice is a low, reverent whisper. It is I who should thank her for giving me the time of day.

"I just want you to…" Words fail me. It is a common occurrence in Bella's presence. I swallow an unexpected lump in my throat. "I just want to do whatever it takes so you don't regret any of this."

"Regret this? Why?" she asks, gesturing towards the space between us. "You think I can't handle it? You could have a point."

"But Bella…" She stops me, with a halting hand.

"You do have a point, after all; but it doesn't mean I regret being here, being with you. I will learn to handle…the side effects of this. A little help, maybe, from time to time?"

"Anything you wish. Anything to keep you by my side." My hand reaches across the table to grasp hers. I'm sure I'm smiling like the hopeless love-struck fool that I am.

"You're sure there's no cheese named after you? Because there should be…"

"Quit being a smartass. You love…it." I recover quickly. This time. "I think we should…attack the lobsters?"

Without hesitation, she grabs the very unfashionable paper napkins and prepares to dig in – so much for a romantic dinner. Before devoting her full attention to the very dead and very orange crustacean in front of her, she flashes me another blinding smile. "Thank you, Edward. This is just…perfect."

Bella is blissfully happy about her lobster, working her way through her gigantic plate in a symphony of moans, licking her fingers at every opportunity. Eating lobster is a messy affair. Watching Bella eat lobster is a torturous affair – a pant-tightening, groin-throbbing kind of torturous affair. Still, I keep my countenance, somehow, and manage to get through dinner without pouncing on her like a caveman.

"I can't take anymore; I'm sure I'll puke if I do, Edward." She is inebriated, but not drunk. I only poured us a couple glasses of wine to get through dinner, but nothing over the top. I want her coherent for what I have in mind.

"Fancy a little break, then? Maybe stargazing out here on the deck? It's a lovely night." I begin, standing up to reach her side of the table. "But not as lovely as you." She takes my hand, and I pull her close to me for a searing kiss.

My timing, once again, should be perfect. "Dance with me, B?"

With a lazy smile on her lips, she protests, "I would probably fall and drag you down with me."

"I won't let you fall. Ever." There are no golden specks in her eyes tonight. It's all chocolate – deep, dark, luscious chocolate. I skim her nose with mine, brushing my lips against hers. "Dance with me, please?"

"But there's no music…"

_Methinks she doth protest too much, Cullen._

Right on cue, because my timing is indeed perfect, the music starts in a dissonant rhythm of drums and a distorted guitar; the deeper, rounder strains of a bass holding it all together. Another guitar weaves an arpeggio through it all. A rugged, but sultry voice echoes from the speakers in the living room, drifting out to the deck and lingering on the edge of our awareness.

My arms wrap around Bella like a second skin, her hands take up residence on my shoulders, playing with the wayward strands of my hair at the nape of my neck. We don't really dance; we just sway from side to side, till I manage to drift with her to the deck railing, and lean against it.

She's still in my arms. I'm not letting her go tonight. My lips are dangerously close to her ear; the music hits me, sending a wave of desire through me. I've never even thought of doing this for anyone, but serenading Bella sounds like a fucking good idea right now. I sing along, whispering in her ear…

_Did you know I've been wanting you?_

_So leave your locks on the latches_

_If you bring the water_

_I'll bring the matches_

_'Cause we are fires in the night_

_We are fires in the night_

_Let us bathe you in our heart_

_'Cause we are fires in the night_

"We are fires in the night…" her voice is a breathy whisper that sends shivers down my spine. She turns to face me. Her hands are on my face, her lips on my lips.

The music, the stars, the dinner, the lobster, the candles, her wonderful sweater dress – all forgotten. All I can see, feel, taste – Bella. My lovely.

I don't want this night to end.

"Stay with me tonight." It's not a question. It's not a request. It's not begging. It's fact.

"Yes."

No more words are spoken for a long, eventful stretch of time. The only sounds are the last strains of the song, and Bella's soft breaths on my neck as I carry her in my arms back inside the house and up the stairs. I might be downright cocky, but I don't want an awkward fumble on my couch. Even if the night ends with both of us passed out on my bed with our clothes on, I want Bella treated like a queen. I can bloody sleep on the couch and leave her in my room if she doesn't want me there.

I reach the landing, another shiver running down my spine. Bella is leaving a trail of feather-light kisses on my neck. I can't think. I can't move. I can barely close my eyes to savour this moment and hold on to the luscious perfection in my arms.

"Jesus Christ."

_Are you religious now, Cullen?_

"No Jesus Christ here. Bella, remember?"

How I manage to chuckle amid Bella's ministrations is a mystery to me. But I do. She makes me do the strangest things.

"Yes, my lovely. I do remember."

"Edward?" She whispers again, as I gingerly place her on my bed. Good thing Kate and Garrett had all this fancy furniture. It feels great not to live in a run-down month-to-month rental that reeks too much of my old socks and that's overflowing with coffee-stained scripts and random sheet music.

"Bella… I don't want to assume…I just…" And cue the sodding nerves. And the bloody second-guessing. And a puzzled expression on B's face, her head slanted to one side and a puckered frown forming between her eyes.

Then it all changes. Her features relax in a sly smile and she cocks a finger to beckon me down closer to her. Her hands are on my face and her dark, hooded eyes bore into mine as if she is trying to read my soul. Maybe she is, I wouldn't put it past her.

"Whatever doubts you are entertaining in that fascinating head of yours, chuck them out the window now." Scratch that 'maybe', she does read my mind. Why I still question that, I have no bloody clue.

"I don't want you…to…" Again, it's a relief that someone usually writes my lines, because I am a danger to myself when I'm on my own.

"But you do want me…_want me_, right?"

"More than words can say." This is all I can come up with. I already see the ads – '_Cullen Cheese – Premium Brand_'.

B saves me from further embarrassment and pulls me down with her. We fall back on the bed in a graceless lump of tangled limbs. Her lips are on mine in a flash and I lose all sense of coherence.

Our kisses grow more heated by the minute. Her hands disappear in my hair. Twice over, I'm glad I didn't fall for Alice's shite and put on the blasted hair gel. Bella likes it the way it is, messy and all. And I like her soothing, silky touch on my scalp. It eases the nerves but builds up a whole new different tension in me.

"Then have me, Edward." It just comes as a surprise, this hushed declaration of hers, a breathy whisper in my ear, while my lips have left hers only to tease and nibble at her neck instead.

"You put out on the first date?" Welcome back, powers of speech. Welcome back, smart-ass comments. A man's brain is truly located below his belt. Hell, right now mine must be.

"If I really, really, really, _really_ like the guy…" She quips, punctuating each word with a peck on my lips, on my jaw, on my neck, down my chest. And then she rolls me over. And then her hands are under my shirt.

I feel the hard leather of her boots crinkle against my thighs as she wraps her legs around mine, trapping me beneath her. As if I'd ever want to leave this spot. But wait – there's something wrong here, I want to be the one doing the trapping – in a minute. Now, I want to know what she's up to.

"Have I ever told you…how beautiful you are to me?"

She stares at me, wide-eyed. Is this news to her? Who is the fucking sod that undermined her self-confidence, her sense of her own worth? I want to kill him, slowly and painfully. She closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, her hands still under my shirt – not that I'm complaining.

A small tear flows from her eye. She exhales again. I pull her down on my chest and roll us to the side, my thumb wiping away the crystal drop from her cheek.

"No tears, B. Not even happy ones. No tears when you're in my arms."

"I'm just so…"

"Nervous? Pot, meet kettle. We don't have to, really. I'd be content to hold you all night."

She huffs. "What if I disappoint you?"

"What did we say about overthinking? Let's go with the flow. We're no good with stereotypes and rules anyway."

This seems to steady her, for she gets even closer to me and draws one final, more resolute breath. Her hands sneak up under my shirt and higher on my back, drawing lazy circles on my skin. It feels amazing. So amazing that my cock throbs to say hello and my hips jerk against her. I definitely have no more working brain cells, because there's no blood left north of my belt.

Screw the stereotypes. Screw the rules. Screw the patterns. Screw the nerves. All I want is Bella. In my bed. I roll her over and trap her beneath me. I finally have her where I want her.

"You can stop me anytime, my lovely, anytime…"

It's a blasted lie, but I want to try and be a gentleman all the same.

"I just wish you'd stop talking, Edward." I love it when she's bossy. Oh, I really love it…_it_, right?

My hands now roam free over her form, but even the soft wool of her dress is too dire a separation between us. I want it off. And her fingers are prying at my shirt buttons already. I guess we both need to feel each other. I let her undo the buttons, even if the anticipation kills me. My shirt is off. She vanishes for a second and I hear a loud thud on the floor. When her cold toes twine with mine, I realise she's shed her boots. Good thing I tend to walk around the house barefoot. I roll her onto our sides and hitch her leg over my hip, wanting her closer and closer to me.

She must feel my hard-on against her stomach, and my assumption is confirmed by a lusty moan that vibrates through her throat and my ears. Her hips grind against mine and I can't but grab her ass cheeks and keep her where she is meant to be, rocking against me. She will be my undoing before the night is over.

I am so, so glad I am able to multitask. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to move my right hand from her spectacular ass so that my fingers, still shaking a little with lingering nerves, can finally land on her tits. She arches against me, her nails digging into my back and her lips searching mine again.

My emotions are all over the place, my brain has turned to complete mush, but I do know one thing. I'll never regret this night, whatever the outcome. I'll never regret Bella.

A million minutes must have gone by, and that's the extent of how meaningless time is when I'm completely wrapped up in her. The only thing I can process is that my body needs air if I want to keep this up as long as I want to. My lips leave hers and I feel the loss instantly.

_There's one more thing that needs keeping up, Cullen._

"B…?"

"I don't want you to stop, Edward…" Hell, there she goes again with the mind-reading.

"I don't think I can now..."

There's a look of lusty determination in her eyes. She's never looked sexier to me. Her hands start to roam over my chest and down to…squeeze my ass? I love it when she's brazen. Oh, I really love it…_it_, right?

"Oh, God. You trying to kill me, B?" Her right hand is cupping my junk. My Business Class Girl is a hands-on girl.

"On the contrary…" She trails off, her fingers deftly working my button fly. I hope I don't blow my load…prematurely and shame myself for life. I think it only fair to reciprocate and let my hands wander to find an opening to the contraption that is her dress. I feel her left hand – that one that's not in the immediate vicinity of my cock – direct mine to her waist. I find a tie and, once that's undone, I can't but hold my breath. I never thought I'd get to see Bella like this.

She's wearing a sheer satin bra that's the same colour as her dress, and what appears to be a matching thong. I've never been an expert in lingerie, but this simple and classy yet fucking hot get-up makes me want to get a degree in Applied Lingerie 101. I'll get a fucking Master if I have to. I'll buy stock in La Perla. It's an investment for the future.

I don't speak. I couldn't speak a word even if I wanted to. My hands and lips descend on her, in haphazard order. I am a greedy kid in a candy store. I want it all. And I don't know where to start. Bella helps me remove my jeans and I do the same to her dress.

The point of no return. Bella and I, in our underwear, on my bed. A charged, sizzling silence envelopes us. I refrain from asking her once more, but she plucks my unspoken question off my mind and answers her own way, with a searing kiss.

"Edward, please."

That 'please' is my undoing. My lips are on hers once again. I could spend an eternity kissing her, but my body and Bella suddenly have other ideas.

Her hands disappear from their perch on my shoulders. I stare at her, awed and drunken on her beauty. It only takes a blink of my eyes, and her bra is gone. I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. Bella's tits on display for me. More candy for the greedy kid.

Not quite knowing how, Bella and I end up lying on the bed again. More to the point, she's lying beneath me and I'm by her side, leaning on my elbow, and drinking in her form sprawled out on my bed. How decadent, and how unbelievably hot. I can't tear my eyes off her. Every detail of her naked body is being branded permanently into my mind's eye and in my heart.

Slowly, torturously, my fingers land on her breasts and I feel her nipples pebble and harden under my touch. Her body just vibrates with the anticipation. I feel like a god, knowing that this is the effect I have on her. Her eyes are pearls of black, shining obsidian and her breaths are hot and shallow. Her heart beats in a frenzied rhythm that resonates through my own chest as I leave a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses from her jaw down to the valley between her breasts.

And then…I flick my eager tongue on her nipple, and her moan nearly unravels me. My hips jerk and grind against her. I know I've hit a spot the second her moans turn to a breathless keening. She digs her nails in my sides, inflicting a sweet pain that makes me even hornier.

My hand travels south, skimming the waistband of her thong. I hate this excuse for underwear that hides her from me. The last scrap that separates us, because B is so considerate that she helped me out of my boxer-briefs. I should also mention that her hands are examining me…very thoroughly.

"Fuck, B. Keep it up and I'm not gonna last."

"Mmmmm…"

My hips jerk again. She's enjoying this, the little vixen. Wait till I get my hands on you…Oh, wait – I'm there already. Seems like I need to step up my game. I let my hand roam over her hips, the apex of her thighs, and further down, but never where she expects me to go. I purposefully avoid her pussy. It's killing me, because I want her so bad I'm afraid I'll explode, but I want to watch her reactions to me, too.

"Edward…please…"

"Please what, B?" I'm a greedy, horny bastard.

"More…just…more." Her tiny hand tightens around my cock. No discomfort, only unbearable pleasure. I can't wait to be inside her.

"Of what, my lovely?" Screw being a gentleman. I want her. But I want her to want me.

"You, Edward. Just…you. Give me…you."

I can't help a satisfied growl. Her thong disappears, I don't even know how. My movements are too quick. I can't tell.

I just know that my hands are caressing and probing, my fingers dangerously close to her slit, and they're coated in wetness. She wants me.

I just know that my lips are kissing, nibbling, sucking on her nipples and I never want to stop. She arches her back against me. She wants me.

I want her. So fucking much it hurts. I still my movements and brace myself, leaning my weight on my elbows. I throw a slanted glance her way, looking up from my perch on her breasts. Her hands tangle up in my hair. She doesn't want me to move. Or does she?

"Now…" she exhales, wrapping her legs around my hips.

"Now," I growl again, feeling my cock against her pussy, coated in her juices already. I kiss her, my tongue dancing with hers and then…with one single thrust, I'm one with her.

A peaceful, satisfied sound exhales from Bella's lips, her hot breath almost vibrating against my skin. She arches her back, her hips meeting my thrusts. I can't rein in the caveman's growl that builds inside my chest. Possession flares within me, igniting my skin, my muscles, my nerves, my touch, until my only conscious compulsion is to go deeper and deeper inside her.

My eyes land on her face, and I take in the tantalising beauty of her flushed skin, of her glowing eyes staring right into mine. Her chest moves in shallow breaths, her pouty lips look moist and swollen, and just like that, I kiss her again, to get her closer to me, to let her moans resonate through my body.

When I come up for air, just one word escapes me, "Bella…" And it's a drawn out whisper, my voice huskier than I'm accustomed to. It's all because of her.

She answers with a breathless moan of her own, her tiny hands raking trails of fire on my back.

"Edward, please…"

"Please what, lovely?" I've no intention of being a gentleman. Sue me.

Now.

Want.

Her.

This is all my lower brain can process. My so-called higher brain has vacated the premises for the night.

"I'm close…so close…"

"Ugh, Bella…" How articulate. But words really fail me – and actions speak louder, anyway. My thrusts gain momentum, and my pace is unrelenting. I can't stop; I don't want to stop. I want to be drowned in Bella. I want to lose myself in her.

Without warning, she flips us over. The most magnificent sight is before my lust-addled eyes – Bella. Riding me. I completely lose it, and my hips jerk up in a violent, unrestrained motion until my dick is buried hilt-deep within her.

I feel her, constricting her wet, hot walls around me. I see her, a quivering hot mess dancing above me. I hear her, chanting my name over and over.

"Edward…"

I can't rein it in any longer; I reach my peak while her orgasm hits her in waves that vibrate through me, as well.

Spent, unhinged. Deliciously aching. Utterly and completely enamoured. Ruined. For life, maybe?

I'll hold that thought till the morning. Meanwhile, she collapses on my chest, and my arms wrap around her, for closeness and protection. I don't want her out of my sight, or out of my bed, any time soon.

"My lovely…"

"Shhh…don't speak. Just bask in this. Please?"

How could I ever deny her? She's so much smarter. We bask, until we both fall asleep in each other's arms.

_BCG's POV_

The sheets smell different. The bed feels different. The light filters from an odd angle.

Different is good. Odd is good. Both bring me back to the present, to the here and now, while I slowly, achingly rise from the sleep of the dead.

This is real. I didn't dream about it; the sheets and the pillow smell like Edward. I'm still in Edward's bed.

Memories of last night meander through my still hazy consciousness, making all my feelings and sensations bubble back to the surface. I can't see my face, and I'm not stepping into the remote vicinity of a mirror until after I shower, but I just know I'm beet-red right now.

I. Had. Sex. With. Edward.

After a spectacular, romantic date, I spent the night in his bed. Not sleeping.

Not sleeping is good, as long as Edward is involved. I turn to his side of the bed, my eyes still half-closed, and let my arm flail blindly around, feeling for his presence. I find only empty, lukewarm and rumpled sheets.

Waking up with no Edward in bed is _not_ good. I sigh, groggy and mildly frustrated. Now, where in the world is he?

"Edward?" my voice is raspy, sleepy. No answer.

I'm a girl on a mission, a mission to find her lost boyfriend in his rented beachfront mansion. I gather the sheets around my body and, with painstakingly slow motions, I pull up to a sitting position, surveying the rest of the room.

Still no Edward, but a lot of haphazardly scattered clothes – mine as well as his. I listen for noises around the house, trying to spot his location thanks to my superior powers of guesswork. He could be in the shower, but I can't hear the water running anywhere. Maybe this needs to be a hands-on hunt for my lost boyfriend.

With a resigned sigh, I grab the first piece of fabric I can reach, and it turns out to be one of Edward's t-shirts. He's not the tidiest chap I've ever met, but he's not a slob either. He just adopts…a very random approach; this time around it works to my advantage.

After a generous whiff of Eau d'Edward from his t-shirt and a short trip to the bathroom, I pad my way down the stairs. I catch my movements halfway down – I hear voices, in the hushed, urgent tones of a tense conversation. One is clearly Edward's, the other…the other sounds like an ill-disciplined, strained baritone, stage whispering in short hisses and half-bitten curses. I would know that voice anywhere – it's Emmett's. He has a hard time schooling his boisterous voice into socially acceptable tones, and he can hardly whisper to save his life. Let's just say you can't rely on him for hushed or stealthy conversations.

I don't mean to eavesdrop, but there's just no avoiding it, since I'm two steps away from their line of vision. Besides, I'm really intrigued to find out what the hell Emmett is doing here, the night after my date with Edward. So I keep descending, one step at a time, with an air of practised nonchalance.

"I told you, Eddie, I couldn't send him packing."

"Bloody fucking hell on a stick, Em. Why now? And why here?"

From his voice, I can tell that Edward is seething. It's the tone he uses when producers start throwing hissy fits about things he absolutely won't give in to, or when studio execs want him all over the place for promotion, or when photographers and fashion editors want him to be shirtless in photo shoots. Those are big no-no's for him.

A throat clears in the background, while Edward paces the living room in nervous strides. "Can't he take his upper-class buttocks back where they belong?"

Emmett clears his throat again, more audibly this time, because Edward's rant is nowhere near finished.

"But if Angela has had anything to do with this, I'm gonna fire her skinny ass this time. I don't give a fucking damn if she's your friend, Em. This is out of line."

"Good morning, BeeBee, looking mighty fine this morning…" I can't help but snort at Emmett's lame attempt at deflecting Edward from his rant, and to draw attention to me instead.

"Emmie, drop the innuendo, will you?" I retort, keeping it clipped and short. Now I really want to know what's happening, and who is the intruder that's come out of nowhere to rain on Edward's parade.

Right on cue, Emmett snickers at my bitchy comeback, but Edward turns abruptly to face me. I take a second to revel in his presence. He still looks rumpled from sleep, with his hair all over the place and a pair of running shorts hanging low on his hips. Shirtless. Barefoot. His jaw flexes and his arms stretch in a protracted yawn. Not the sexiest way to greet your girlfriend after your first sleepover, but he still manages to look cute. He even mumbles something that sounds like "Morning, B" through his yawning. I snicker and shake my head.

He reaches his arm out to take my hand in his and draws me closer. Now we're talking.

"I was trying to say, good morning, B," and just like that, I can't remember why I snapped at Emmett, or why I was tempted to eavesdrop. All I can see is Edward, kissing the tip of my nose, his forehead against mine.

I smile into the kiss and reply, a little breathless, "Good morning to you, too…"

We both turn our faces towards Emmett, who is making gagging noises at us. "Says the guy who has a running bill with the trendiest florist in Brentwood…"

"BeeBee, you wouldn't dare…" He's afraid I'm ratting him out. He's so predictable it's not even funny.

"Well, you'll just quit that, if you know what's good for you…" My voice is sickeningly sweet. Edward just looks at him in silent question, cocking an eyebrow at his evident discomfort.

"Ok, ok. You win. But it's unfair."

"No, it's calling it even. Now, Emmie, as much as I'm pleased to see you…what the hell are you doing here?"

Edward extricates himself from me and plops down on the couch instead, his hands scratching his scalp. It's one of his 'frustrated Edward' signals.

"Emmett, please," Edward begins.

"BeeBee…we…"

"For fuck's sake, Emmett…" Edward interrupts, now clearly irritated.

"BeeBee…we…have a situation."

I take a seat on the armrest of the couch, right beside Edward. His arm coils protectively around my waist. I feel his cool fingertips on my hipbone and my concentration wanes for a second, but then I get back to the task at hand.

"Emmett, you did go to college, right? Can you be more articulate and define 'situation'? This isn't the Jersey Shore."

Luckily. Hopefully.

Edward's fingers squeeze my hip. I can almost feel his jaw tightening. This must be bad or, at least, problematic.

"Yeah, well…Ok, there's no easy way to say this."

"B, you don't need to…" – Edward tries to cut me off, but I silence him with a healthy dose of BBL – Bossy Bella Look.

"I think I do, Boss. Emmett, will you please go on?" Edward huffs. Let him huff – now I want to get to the bottom of this.

"Ok, I'm just gonna blurt it out. But don't kill the messenger, right?"

"Then fucking say it, Emmett. I'm not a porcelain doll."

"Right. Marcus showed up at our doorstep, bright and early this morning."

I am stunned into silence for a second. Maybe longer. The look on my face must be priceless.

"Marcus?"

"Yes, B. Marcus. As in Sir Marcus Goldsmith, B. Your Oxford sweetheart turned hotshot publisher. Do you need a mug shot to recognise him?"

Edward winces at the mention of Marcus's ancient relation to me, but his hold on me doesn't waver.

"What the fuck does he want?"

"He demanded to see you, B. I think you might have an emergency…."

I groan, frustrated and puzzled. It's just like Marcus to pull a surprise appearance when he wants to corner people right where he wants them. I'm not inclined to be cornered this time, though.

"I'm gonna paint Angela's ass fifty shades of pink by lunchtime."

Edward snickers. "I so want to see you do that, B. Can I watch?"

Emmett growls. "I want the preppy asshole out of my house by lunchtime." Ugh, I guess Emmett never liked Marcus that much.

* * *

You noticed something was off? It probably was. Keep your eyes open, ladies. Keep your eyes open.

Music to go with the chapter: Band of Skulls, Fires (if you can get past the yucky video): http : / www . youtube . com / watch? v = 5fxykGHHYkM


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Your eyes are not deceiving you. It's an update.

No excuses, just that RL went very, very crazy for long months.

Peeptoe and Unimaginative Olena crossed my t's and dotted my i's.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Stephenie Meyer's genius. Plot is mine, though. I enjoy making them do crazy things.

* * *

**BUSINESS CLASS GIRL - CHAPTER 22**

_BCG's POV_

"Emmie, as much as you don't want the preppy asshole around the house, it might, you know, look good if you actually showed up…" I cut in before he says anything else. Anything more stupid, that is.

"BeeBee…" he has the pleading look of the proverbial five-year-old who's been grounded on no PlayStation, no candies and no football.

"Don't BeeBee me, he might be my least favourite person on the planet right now, but it won't take him long to figure out where you've gone. Jasper can only entertain him for so long with tales of their Oxford stunts. Marcus is a baronet, not an idiot."

"Debatable." Edward's voice has a hard edge to it. I think it's safe to say that Emmett gained a supporter in his anti-Marcus crusade.

"Right. This is not the time for a pissing contest, Boss. Just let Emmett go home, then I will go home, deal with his Lordship, and then I will call Angela and ask her what the heck she knows about this clusterfuck."

"BeeBee, you sure about this?" Em's speaking to me, but he's looking at Edward, whose mouth is pulled into a hard, thin line, and whose eyes are narrowed to slits, like those of a snake coiled up to strike.

"Yes, I'm sure. There are a couple of things I need to do before I come back."

"Ugh, leave it. I don't wanna know." Emmett's snicker shakes Edward out of his momentary funk.

As soon as my brother clicks the door shut behind him, Edward turns and pulls me into his lap. Then his hands are on both sides of my face. "Now I can say a proper 'Good morning' to you, B."

This kiss is slow and languid, there is no urgency, there are no frantic breaths. I feel only his lips on my skin… and his hands in my hair. His nose skims my neck, sending shivers down my spine again. My limbs are tangled and aching from the awkward posture, but I don't care. I just feel my arms winding around his waist, and his hands gripping my waist, bringing me closer. Being human, I still need to come up for air and, as much as I hate it, I must break the kiss.

"That's one hell of a good morning, can I have another?"

He smiles against my lips. "As many as you want. All the mornings you want." His voice is serene, full of promise. Who knew the morning after would be so smooth? That is, net of any intruding peerage.

"So, this…Marcus, do you really have to go and deal with him now?" The hard edge is back. He sounds dangerous.

"Yes, Edward. I do. I might have an inkling of what he wants, and why he showed up unexpected and uninvited like this, but neither Jasper nor Emmett can effectively send him packing."

"And you can?"

I sigh. This answer is loaded with a backstory I haven't yet shared with Edward in its entirety. The backstory where Marcus is my prospective publishing editor.

"Yes. I have leverage. I have something he wants."

"I'll bet." His hold on me grows tighter. Little does he know that there is no competition.

"Not that way, Edward."

He scoffs, his disbelief painted all over his face. "I'm a guy, B. I saw the way he looked at you."

Right. The Christmas party.

"He was just…surprised to find me there. It's complicated."

Edward releases me, sits back against the couch and abandons his arms down his sides but doesn't stop staring at me, his eyes roaming all over my still rumpled figure. The man is evil incarnate, turning me into a mess while we're in a discussion about intruding exes.

"I think I can keep up," he answers, patting my bum with a satisfied smirk.

"It's also a very long story."

"I have time. Or so my assistant tells me," he insists, with a grin.

"I told you he's a commissioning editor now, right? Well, Ang sent my manuscript to him, among others. It looks like he wants to publish it."

"That's obvious. You wrote it." Edward says it as a foregone conclusion.

"It's not like that, Edward. He didn't know it was mine."

"How?"

"He requested a coded manuscript. There was no name on his copy. It's not a standard practice, but it's so like Marcus to insist on this kind of thing."

Edward's eyebrows knit together. I can tell he's genuinely interested. "Why do you say that?"

"I mentioned he's a baronet, right? Well, he's lived a life of privilege since infancy. He's used to being pampered and cuddled, sometimes even when he doesn't deserve it. He's a sneaky bastard, though, so he plays that card to his advantage whenever he wants to, but with the lineage and Eton education, a deep sense of justice and honesty has been ingrained into him as well. You know, the regular staples of an English gentleman."

Edward nods, but he looks none too pleased. "I don't understand how this has anything to do with your coded manuscript."

"There you have it – he'd never want his judgement to be clouded by external considerations, such as name and background, in a professional environment. God knows how many times his last name alone has tilted the odds in his favour when he happened to behave like a tosser. He knows what it's like to be treated unfairly. He just wants to ensure that there's no unfair competition."

"Sounds like a standard spoiled brat to me. A posh spoiled brat with a claim to gentility, to boot." Edward's accent when he says 'posh' makes me crack an involuntary smile.

"I know, I know. He's not a saint. I've known him long enough to be well aware of that. He's a pretty controversial bloke, but we used to get along at Oxford. Along with Jasper and Rose, he was my lifeline for years."

"From what I've heard, you did more than just 'get along'…" Edward's nose is a mere inch from mine, and his green orbs have narrowed to slits. Did Voldemort have green eyes? Because he looks rather wicked to me right now.

"Are we jealous, Boss? I told you we…were an item for a long time. But it's water under the bridge now. It was eons ago. I haven't seen him in years."

Edward huffs. "Back to the subject. I missed the link between the coded manuscript and the Christmas party."

"Oh, that. Right. He'd been invited to Ang's party to meet the author, but Ang didn't tell him it was me. Hence the big reunion scene at her party."

Edward huffs yet again, raising an eyebrow. "If you say so. But I still don't like the way he looks at you. If Emmett happens to punch him, I'll help."

I snicker, because it sounds hilarious. Jealous Edward is cute.

"You have nothing to worry about. Marcus is a spoiled high-class brat, used to getting what he wants. When I refused to fly to NY the other day, he thought showing up at my doorstep would be a good method to get me to sign with his company. Too bad he seems to have forgotten that I hate feeling pressured. I'll remind him," I conclude, nudging Edward's shoulder.

"Brr, now I'm scared. Remind me never to get on your bad side, B."

"Meh, I think you like my bad side." He flashes me a devious smile.

"I like all your sides, but your bad-ass side is devilishly hot. Can I have that for breakfast?"

"Sure," I shoot back, jumping off the couch, headed upstairs. He stops me.

"B, wait. I want to… That is, I meant…Bollocks. What I really want to say is…There's something I need to…Fuck, I'm rambling."

His tone gets me worried. This isn't now I pictured the end of this conversation.

"Edward, what's wrong?"

He grabs my hand, drawing me back closer to him, his eyes serious.

"There's…I…hell, I'm useless…Listen, I just realised…we…I…that is, we didn't…I didn't…"

I don't understand where this is going. Edward's sudden bout of inarticulacy doesn't help.

"Boss, a little help here, I can't follow you."

Edward pinches his nose, runs his hands through his hair and finally, when he's exhausted his usual array of '_My name is Edward Cullen and I'm bloody nervous_' gestures, he speaks. "I went bloody bareback on you without even asking, ok? That's the thing. And now I feel like a tool. I'm a selfish fucking tool, and I disrespected you. Can you forgive me?"

I would flash him a blinding smile, but I'm afraid he'd misconstrue now, so I just move closer and hug him as tight as I can. I kiss his bare chest, running my hands on his back.

"There's nothing to forgive, absolutely nothing. I'm a big girl. I'm covered. Don't worry."

He holds me tighter, but one hand goes to lift my chin up so he can look me in the eye. "But…I mean, we didn't talk about it…and I just…B, I swear, I'm clean…I'm not…I'm not the sodding manwhore they make me out to be."

He's nervous. He's afraid that I'd believe the lie; that I'd fall for the artfully contrived ploy, for the public persona that the gossip rags are sewing onto him like a second skin. He forgets one vital bit of information.

"Edward, I believe you. I know you're clean. Even if I didn't, I'd believe you. I trust you."

His face lights up like a Christmas tree. Wonder Boy just had an epiphany. I think.

"You do?"

"Of course I do."

"But how? Why?"

"You want me to explain why I trust you?"

His face scrunches up. "No, how the hell do you know?"

This time I can't help snickering a bit. The guy is really clueless.

"Boss, who do you think arranges your doctor's appointments? Who picks up the results of your medical tests? Don't you remember you just went through a whole slew of them, because you're in between filming? There's your answer."

He blanches. He's realised I looked through his medical info even before he was boning me. I think his NerveMeter is going on overdrive. Poor Edward.

"Oh, bollocks. You picked up my urine and blood tests from the doc's office. How embarrassing."

"Hey, says the one who got down to his boxers in front of his new assistant. And don't tell me you didn't know what you were doing."

He scratches the back of his head, a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah, guilty as charged. Sorry I freaked out, B."

"No probs, Boss. Just don't do it again. Breakfast? I can't kick ass on an empty stomach."

An hour later, Edward absolutely insists on walking back to the house with me. At first, I try to politely decline. He insists some more. I cave, with one stipulation. He'll sneak in through the basement into the gym. I don't want him exposed to Marcus just yet. There's no need to give his Lordship fodder for his snide comments, and no need to rile Edward up either. I can handle this on my own.

As expected, I find Marcus and Jasper in the living room, chatting and snickering like idiots just as they used to do at Oxford. Marcus jumps up from the couch the moment he sees me.

"Just the girl I was itching to see." Smooth bastard. Not that it's going to do him a whole lot of good.

"Knock it off, your Lordship. What's the occasion?" I don't bother to approach him, and choose to wander into the kitchen to fix myself a well-deserved gallon of Earl Grey instead. Needless to say, he follows me.

"I come bearing gifts," he announces, waving a box wrapped in shiny red paper in front of my eyes.

"Oh, do you work a side job as one of Santa's elves now? Has your father cut back on your allowance?

He laughs and plops down on one of the kitchen stools, pushing the package in my direction.

"BeeBee, don't be like that. I was in the area and I just wanted to see you and give you this, for Christmas."

I sit across from him at the kitchen island, unwrapping the present. "Um, why would you have that sudden urge, just when I said I wouldn't sign the book deal until February?"

"You thought I would do something so underhanded? That was business, this is a social call."

I shake my head in disbelief. Social call my ass. "Social call? What is this, a Jane Austen novel? Marcus, I might – and I say might – be glad to see you, but you can't cannon-ball into my life whenever you take a fancy to it. And please, cut the 'I was in the area' bullshit. I can see right through you."

The opened package reveals a very old, rumpled, faded and almost consumed Pearl Jam t-shirt. I remember this t-shirt. It's from the first Pearl Jam concert I ever went to. And of course, Jasper, Rose and Marcus were right there with me. Marcus had gotten me the t-shirt, on the wave of an unshakable 'You need to celebrate your first Pearl Jam gig properly, girl.'

The t-shirt was mine, but the rascal snuck it away at Oxford, never giving it back. It became one of the many unresolved things between us when we broke up and drifted away. I'm still irritated that he showed up uninvited, but I can't help being moved by the gesture. It's his typical convoluted way of trying to mend a fence – the fence that these years apart have erected between us. Still, I shouldn't feel so emotional about this. It should be the final insult that sends package and all flying into his face. How dare he? Why is he doing this now? Rationally I should resent him, but I can't. Blame it on my blasted sentimental disposition. Also, it would be easier to dislike him and send him packing. I don't do easy. Ever.

"How did you?.." are the only words that manage to escape my stunned mouth.

"I found it at the bottom of my closet the night I got back to NY. I didn't even know I still had it. I thought it'd been lost through one move too many. But then, there it was, as worn as I remembered it. I thought it was time to return it to its rightful owner. And I'm truly sorry for barging in like this."

I hug him and thank him again. There is just too much history between us. Besides, I can thank him and still kick his ass.

"You're not sorry, this is exactly what you wanted to do. Get me all emotional so I'd eat up whatever sob story you wanted to feed me," I shoot back, nudging his chest with my pointer finger.

He smiles, giving me a visual that reminds me exactly why I fell for him six years ago. "True. It's an excuse. A sorry one, at that."

"Well, you must have lost some of your shady ways, then."

"Or you just know me better than anyone." I keep sipping my tea in silence. There is no good answer to this. Silence is safer.

"So, what's the real occasion, Marcus? Officially, I am still on holiday."

"I want you to sign that bloody contract, okay? I couldn't bear it if you signed with another company. I want that book. I want your book. Isn't this reason enough?"

Because I am feeling the spirit of the season, I fix him a cup of tea and hand it to him before answering. "You know I hate to feel pressured. And shouldn't you sort this out with Ang, anyway?"

He looks embarrassed, hiding his face behind his mug. Mouse is in the trap. This tells me two things. First, Ang doesn't know; which means that her skinny ass is safe, this time. Second, Marcus knows he's forcing my hand. There must be something else at stake.

"I kind of…sort of…sold you on as a done deal to my boss. So you see, you're stuck with me whether you want to or not." His shaky voice ends on a cockier note.

"What makes you think so?"

"The fact that you can't resist me." The smart ass is back. Too bad his timing is all wrong, almost as wrong as his assumptions.

I heave a frustrated sigh. We're going round in circles. "Are we really talking about my book here, Marcus? Because I have a feeling we're not."

With a fluid motion, he places his mug back on the counter, tents his long fingers in front of his face and levels me a serious look.

"Are you really satisfied with the life you're leading here, BeeBee? Aren't you settling for less? I can't see you being content with running errands for the latest Hollywood heartthrob. There is so much more out there for you. If you were with me, for example…"

I hope he's saying that for the sake of argument only. Otherwise, I might be inclined to forget that I'm usually a non-violent person. Usually.

"There's no going back, Marcus. You can't mean that."

"Maybe I don't agree. Maybe I don't care."

"Well, as it happens, I care." A third voice, ice-cold and unwavering, fills up the room. I don't have to turn towards the door to see that Edward is back. His timing, much unlike Marcus's, seems to be perfect.

_Edward_

Of course I care. The sodding bastard is trying to steal my girl from under my nose, and I should take it with a smile? Never. He's going down. He doesn't need to butter me up with glamorous stories about publishing B's book. Of course it must be fantastic. Of course he's chomping at the bit to publish it.

I might still be fuming in secret because she won't let me read it, but I know, hands down, that it must have potential. And this high society freak in a designer suit and artificially snow-white smile smells business. And he wants into B's pants, that's as clear as day.

Fuck the good old times at Oxford. Fuck the fact that Jazz seems to trust him. I don't. The bastard finally speaks, his cold eyes still fixated on Bella.

"Edward Cullen, I believe," he says smoothly, standing up and extending his hand to greet me. I don't even take the trouble to return the courtesy.

Arms crossed over my chest, I lean against the counter, intent on looking like the picture of ease in B's kitchen. My move is not lost on Marcus who, in turn, does stand a bit straighter. B's irritated eyes are trained on me, and a frown that says 'what the heck are you doing here?' is etched on her beautiful face. I know, I know, I just hi-jacked her conversation with the ex. So sue me.

"And you must be Marcus Goldsmith. What brings you back to LA so soon?"

Read between the lines, baronet. You are on my turf. This is my girl. Sod off.

"He came to pester me. And to bring me a present." Bella waves an old t-shirt in front of me.

"It's rightfully yours, BeeBee. A little late, maybe, but yours nonetheless." Who says 'nonetheless' in everyday conversation other than Jasper? And the guy's a lawyer, that comes with side effects.

"Will you be thinking about it, BeeBee?" Bella huffs. Did this Marcus fellow never learn the phrase 'no pressure'?

"The deal? Just so you can save your arse? I so feel the love here, Sir. I should tell you to fly back to NY, tail between your legs. I am tempted, in fact. So very tempted."

B looks serious. No, wait. She looks deadly. Her tone is level, calculated, her eyes never leave Marcus's face and she's not batting an eyelid. Scary. And fuck me, she's hot. Wickedly hot. I shouldn't be thinking about boning her while she's arguing with her ex in her kitchen, but I am.

_One-track mind, Cullen._

"You wouldn't, BeeBee." Marcus finally catches her drift. My girl has an iron will and I'm damn proud that she's standing her ground, instead of letting this Marcus fellow order her around just because they have history.

"Marcus, I meant what I said. I need to think this over, and the fact that we're friends won't fast-track you anywhere. If I do sign with you, it will be because your company is the best option for me and for my work. You will hear from my agent."

Marcus moves closer to her, throwing a cursory glance my way. It doesn't take a scientist to see that whatever he's about to do will be some kind of stunt to rile me up. Let's see how B will like this.

"Tell me you're not doing this because of him," he spits, his tone condescending. Bad move, bad move indeed.

"Despite what you think, I can make my own damn decisions."

"So you expect me to believe that you're happy here, picking up his laundry, keeping him on track? You could have the world at your feet, BeeBee."

The tosser got one thing right – Bella deserves the world at her feet, but if anyone's doing that for her, it's going to be me. Get over it, your Lordship.

"Maybe I don't care what you believe, Marcus. I advise you to keep this professional. You are irritating me." Her tone is scathing. If the guy doesn't take a hint now, he's a notch or twenty more clueless than I am.

"This isn't over, BeeBee. I want that book." It's like watching a tennis match on the telly. They throw one-liners at each other, but my girl definitely has the best shots.

"No, this isn't over. Angela will have a field day discussing this with your board." Marcus is pale as a ghost. Not that he had a lot of colour to start with.

"And he stands there without saying a word?"

That's enough. I'm done with trying to be polite. I throw a sideways glance at Bella, a fair warning of sorts.

"Bella is perfectly capable of fighting her own battles. Besides, I'm enjoying the show too much."

"Marcus, get out of my house. And call my agent next time you want to see me. Oh, and thank you for giving me back MY t-shirt."

"You're as much a spoiled brat as you ever were, Marcus. And you're pissing my little sister off. Do as she says. Leave, before it gets ugly." Emmett just re-emerged from wherever he was. Good timing, coach.

Marcus gives Emmett a covert stink eye but keeps pleading only with Bella. "Isabella, please…I didn't mean to…" Nice try, Marcus. Nice try. Too bad you blew this.

"But you did it anyway, Marcus. I'm not the same girl I was six years ago. Stop ordering me around. You will do well to remember this; otherwise I don't see any way we can interact professionally in the future. Please, leave. Angela will deal with this."

"I just don't want you to regret any of this, BeeBee."

"I won't. But you could, from the looks of it. You will hear from my agent, Marcus. Goodbye."

Once the tosser finally leaves, Bella collapses on one of the barstools and grabs her mug.

"Well, I daresay that ended far better than I imagined, right?"

My girl is a fighter.

* * *

A special thanks to all of you wonderful people who read, reviewed, favourited and alerted and waited such a long time for this. The next chapter is in the works, but as I said to some of you, I can't promise regular updates. They will come as and when I get chapters done.

The very very special thanks from the bottom of my heart goes to my friend and sister from another mister Robsmyyummy Cabanaboy. I know a swarm of you came over here thanks to her and her wonderful stories. What can I say...she is one of the dearest friends I made in this fandom. And she likes gelato. Nuff said.

See you all soon...I hope!


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